Of Slaves and Sorrow
by Merlyn Pyndragon
Summary: King Arthur is baffled when entire villages are suddenly reported empty. He sets out with his knights and faithful servant to investigate, but on the way, he finds what it means to lose a close friend, and faces horrors he has never before. Character whump level: *critical*
1. The Bearer of Grave News

**What the bloody hell are you doing here? This is for ****_tough_**** readers, readers with cold stone hearts and hollow souls.**

**...**

**Fine. As you're already here I might as well get on with it. This is a dark story, mates. I'm warning you now, as I warned you before and will warn you again, that there is some serious character cruelty, aka 'whump,' in this tale. Do not read this if you're in a good mood—it'll ruin it...Hm, it may be best if you didn't read it in a bad mood either. Or a medium mood. In fact, it's just best if you didn't read it in ****_any_**** mood, unless you feel like scolding me for doing this to our favourite knights and warlock.**

**I honestly don't know where this story came from. I guess I found it the coldest recesses of my heart and threw it onto the keys. It's really nasty; don't take the warning lightly.**

**The characters will have to make choices in this tale, but here's the catch – so will you. You'll understand me soon enough.**

**Enjoy...Tolerate...Suffer through...? Erm, here's ****Of Slaves and Sorrow.**

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><p>~1~ <span>The Bearer of Grave News<span>

He hasn't come back yet. _Why_ hasn't he come back yet?

Arthur Pendragon paced his room, but not out of worry. In fact, he was very, very annoyed.

"'_I'll be back within a fortnight_,' he says," the king grumbled, cruelly mimicking Merlin's promise with a whiny tone. It had now been the sworn two weeks, or rather, three days _longer_ than the sworn two weeks, and the servant had yet to return. "I'll show _him_ a fortnight!"

Disregarding the fact that his last statement didn't make a whole lot of sense, Arthur strode to the window and glowered at the gate across the courtyard as though it were solely responsible for his servant's tardiness.

"Lazy, insolent, useless..._buffoon!_"

۞ Ӂ ۞

There was nothing left in his stomach to vomit as he ran himself past fatigue and into utter exhaustion. His legs couldn't stop, for they had been forced to full tilt for too long. His ragged lungs had quit begging for him to slow, and the stitches got bored with tearing his chest apart.

The road was no longer of importance. He shoved his way through bushes, splashed across streams, hurtled logs and boulders, disregarded the savage cuts and scrapes he received as punishment for evading his pursuers.

Still he regretted leaving his horse behind. The slavers had cornered him and the beast several miles back, and he had no choice but to leave her and climb the small cliff face they had been backed against. For a while, he thought he'd escaped, but it wasn't long before he heard the whistling for hounds and the cracks of whips all around him. Clearly, the slavers knew the land more than he, and if he didn't keep moving, that would mean the end of him.

So, Merlin ran.

۞ Ӂ ۞

"I bet he got himself lost," Arthur growled, clothing himself for the day. As the dressing screen didn't reply, he stepped out from behind it and went to the silver basin where he splashed water over his face. Shivering, he realized that he had waited too long and the fluid had chilled. "Got lost looking for those _rare herbs_ for Gaius, then _tripped_ on a _root_ and knocked himself out on _tree!_" He dried his face with a towel. "_Again!_"

He threw the towel at a nearby chair, missed, and left it on the floor. After strapping his sword to his hip, he composed himself as best as his simmering impatience would allow and departed from the room.

"Good morning, Uncle," he said, nodding politely at Agravaine as the man fell in step with him.

"Indeed it is, sire," the other replied. "Matters aren't as pressing today; our agenda is a little bit more flexible. Perhaps we can go on that ride we've tried to arrange for the past week."

"That would be great." Arthur was only half-listening. Agravaine noticed.

"You are distracted?"

"Oh, no, it's nothing."

"...Your servant boy hasn't returned, then." There was a slight stretch on _boy_.

Arthur watched emptily through every window they strode past. "No, he hasn't."

A faint disapproving air radiated from the adviser, barely concealed. "We have many efficient servants in Camelot, my lord. You need only ask, and the best of them shall be—"

"No. Again, it's quite all right, Uncle. He's just a little...late, is all. Have Gwaine and Percival returned yet?"

۞ Ӂ ۞

As he hauled himself to his feet once more, he felt as though he would not be able to stand if he fell again. The ever treacherous foliage underfoot threatened his freedom, his very life. He couldn't fight it, only avoid it.

In his mind, he could recall that one slaver, the one with the nine-tailed whip and eye of dead white. There was a scar across the lifeless eye and a grin that put demons to shame. Severus was his name, Severus the Savage. He had stepped out of the trees before the warlock many miles ago, a look of greedy triumph on his grotesque face. It was a man that would haunt Merlin's dreams forever, he knew, even as he dodged into the forest to escape.

He heard the howls of jeering laughter all around now, the snarls and yips of hounds hot on his trail. His fear harried his willpower and drowned his hope. As though smelling his terror, the dogs yowled in excitement, and suddenly sounded much closer.

Then, a river. He could hear a river.

The undertone murmur of water through earth might as well have been a chorus of divine angels to Merlin. With a burst of adrenaline, he abruptly changed course and charged through a prickly bush.

A river. His salvation.

۞ Ӂ ۞

"These trips are very unusual to gift to a lowly servant, my lord," said Agravaine. They were quickly approaching the war room for the day's meeting, but Arthur wished they were already there as to not hear the patronizing tone of the adviser anymore.

"He's a loyal man, despite his...faults," the king insisted. "An annual trip to Ealdor to visit his mother is not unbecoming to allow."

"No, but he swore to be back within two weeks, yet he has failed to keep said promise."

"Perhaps he was delayed," Arthur reasoned. "Bad weather, fallen bridge, anything could have happened. Bandits, even..." There was a slight hesitation in the king's step at that thought. Agravaine failed to miss it.

"We can always send out search parties, sire," he said, but somewhat reluctantly.

"That may not be necessary. Gwaine and Percival are patrolling with troops. If anything, they should meet him on the road."

۞ Ӂ ۞

The water was icy cold as it swallowed him whole. It rushed over his head as he struggled to remain vertical, and he kicked his boots off to dump the dangerous, unnecessary weight. He tumbled once and hit his head, but fought wildly against the greedy current, and won his upright position valiantly.

He coughed up water as his face broke the surface, then choked as the river washed back over him. He banged his legs against debris yet ignored the pain and focused on keeping his head above the rushing water.

With the three consecutive seconds he was able to remain up at any time, he saw flashes of running figures through the trees. The raging river was loud enough to cover his gasping breaths, but he still feared being spotted, a black dot amid white and blue marbled water. He submerged himself and stopped fighting the current. Instead, he allied himself with it. Opening his eyes, he travelled as the river's companion, rising to breathe only when utterly spent of air.

It must have been several miles later when he finally hauled himself, sodden and trembling, from the river's grasp. The water had calmed itself enough to do so, and he lay hidden in the reeds, limbs too weary to move anymore. But he _had_ to move.

"Have to go," he gasped, pushing himself to his knees. "Have to...have to tell Arthur."

He didn't recognize the immediate landscape, though he did know the distant mountains. He was not far from Camelot, if his memory served him faithfully, but the distance seemed so long with the grave and urgent news he bore.

_Well, best start now, I figure_, he thought, and once more started to run.

۞ Ӂ ۞

"More villages have been reported empty," said Sir Leon gravely, "with copious signs of struggle and resistance. This has occurred at least a dozen times now."

"How many are in the kingdom?" asked Arthur, frowning thoughtfully.

"Two, sire."

"And have these empty villages been searched thoroughly for any survivors?"

"Of course, my lord. They've all been checked multiple times, including those outside Camelot's borders, according to the surrounding kingdoms. They are as at a loss to the nature of these disappearances as we."

"They can't have all just packed up everything and left," said Sir Elyan.

"No," Leon replied, "because they didn't pack up anything. Valuables and food were gone, pillaged, but other than that..."

"Were there no tracks to indicate where they were taken?"

"Whoever took the people was very skilled in hiding all signs of travel," finished the knight grimly.

"Very skilled indeed," muttered the king, "to hide the tracks of an entire captured village. In fact, until now, I would have thought it _impossible_."

Perhaps it was Arthur's tone that pushed all those present to realize what a supernatural case this was.

"'Matters aren't as pressing today?'" the king muttered to Agravaine, as the council talked amongst themselves in puzzlement.

"Sire?"

"You said this morning that matters aren't as pressing. They seem mighty pressing to me."

"Well, most of the villages are not even in Camelot, my lord. And those two that are are close to the border, and have little to do with us, besides giving taxes."

"They are still part of this kingdom, Uncle," Arthur said, fighting to keep his impatience at bay. "And even if they are on the border, or beyond it, they are still our responsibility. It may just be two today, but what will happen over the next month, next three months? We must go and investigate."

۞ Ӂ ۞

"If you had to pick between a Lamia and a Bastet, the Lamia constantly trying to suck the life from you and the Bastet always ready to tear you to shreds at night, which would you kiss?"

"Gwaine, not _this_ game again."

"Oh, come now, be a sport! Which one?"

"I'd kill them both."

"Well, that's not a very polite thing to do to a lady. Not at all chivalrous."

"To _hell_ with showing chivalry to _monsters_."

Gwaine chuckled, showing brilliant white teeth. Percival scowled, or at least tried to.

They slowed from a trot as they approached a bend in the road, and the horses gratefully obliged.

"Jack, you'd pick the Lamia, wouldn't you?" Gwaine asked, looking over his shoulder at a mounted soldier riding behind the two knights. The soldier, unsure of how to reply, smiled awkwardly and gave a tight nod. "There, see? _Jack_ can make a decision, Percival. Now you—"

"Hold."

With a synchronized thud, the whole party came to a halt, and the only sounds were twittering birds and muttering horses.

"What the hell is that?" asked Gwaine, squinting at the heap of tanned material in the middle of the road, splotched with some red and black.

"Not _what_. _Who_." Percival indicated the troops to hold position and trotted his horse towards the motionless figure. Gwaine followed suit.

"It's a person?" Gwaine asked, still squinting.

"You need to get your eyes checked, boy."

"Oh, 'boy' yourself, you great lummox!"

At the voices, the shape on the road shifted and pushed itself to its hands and knees. Both knights recognized the figure at once, and flew from their saddles before rushing towards it.

"Saints alive!" Percival exclaimed, helping King Arthur's manservant rise. The youth collapsed, limbs trembling, in the knight's arms. "Merlin, what happened?" He saw the man's bare, and therefore bloodied, feet. "Were you robbed?"

"Must...Arthur...help...tell..." The servant was overwhelmed by weariness. His breath was ragged, tortured. "Ealdor...help..."

"We must get him to a physician," said Gwaine, all fatuity gone.

"I've got him." Percival picked the servant up as though he were not but a sack of down feathers.

"Ealdor...help...slavers..."

"Shush, Merlin. You're safe now." The big knight looked to Gwaine. "Let's take him to Gaius."

۞ Ӂ ۞

"No, it's out of the question. The people have enough troubles paying the fees as they are! We are not at war, our coffers are not struggling – there is no necessity for raising the taxes."

"But our military isn't as strong as it has been in the past, as it was under your father."

If Agravaine had purposefully brought the late King Uther into the argument to ruffle Arthur's feathers, the current king was not going to let him succeed. "I _know_ how my father ruled. _I_ was here my whole life, during the prime of his," Arthur kept his blue gaze locked on the adviser's black one. "Most of the civilians were pushed to the brink of poverty with his laws, but _then_ it _was_ necessary, considering his war on sorcery."

"You are not continuing this war?"

All turned to look at the king and his uncle intently, wondering at the monarch's response. Arthur had to fight down memories, horrid, bizarre, and extraordinary memories – the blue orb light in the cave, the sand twister in the village of Ealdor, and many others – before forming an answer.

"No, or rather, not as hard and vigorous as King Uther. I swore that the druids would be honoured and respected, as they so deserve. You all know this."

"You gave that oath to a restless spirit, sire," interrupted Agravaine, and Arthur wondered if the only reason the man got out of bed was to pester his every word. "The ghost is at peace now, and I hardly think he would care if you continued your father's efforts. It was solely for the purpose of your peoples' protection, my lord. Surely, you—"

"_Agravaine_." It was enough to silence the man instantly. "I am a man of my word. Whether to flesh or spirit, I intend to keep it. If you have an issue—"

_Bam! Bam! Bam!_

"What the hell—?" Arthur straightened from leaning on his knuckles against the table top. "Enter."

The great double doors were pushed open, and Gwaine strode in, the usual playfulness gone from his features. "Arth—my king, I bring urgent news."

"What is it, Sir Gwaine?" Before any man of importance in the council, the knights and their king, though close friends, had to keep the mask of courtesy.

"It...well it..." The knight struggled to find the right thing to say.

"...Yes?"

"It's Merlin. We've found him."

As king, Arthur was expected to keep a calm composure, especially before his subjects. Yet it was nearly impossible for him to do so with Gwaine's news.

"Ah," he said, though he wanted to sigh in relief, laugh joyously, and go sock Merlin in the jaw all at the same time. "I hope he has an explanation for his lateness."

"Well, yes and no."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Gwaine shifted. "We found him on the road, about two miles away, but..." He cleared his throat impatiently. "He was past exhaustion, almost dead, and he was babbling nonsense. When we got here, he started fighting to come tell you something – something, apparently, vitally important."

"What does he want to tell me?" Arthur's tone was now very grave, and not forcefully for show.

"Something about Ealdor, and slavers," Gwaine explained. "But he's too weary to say a whole lot, much less move. Mostly, all we can make out is 'tell Arthur.'"

The king sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hated this part about being a monarch. No one had ever told him if, in situations like this, one is supposed to kick up his heels and immediately find out this 'vitally important' information, or wait until the rest of the meeting had drawn to a close.

"What have we left to discuss here?" he asked Gerom, one of the head advisers.

"Well, if we have concluded with the tax policy, then the last urgent topic to discuss would be the manner in which you wish to celebrate the upcoming anniversary of your birth, your majesty. There is decoration, source of entertainment, the food to be..." The adviser trailed off at the king's frosty expression.

"I think that can wait, Gerom," said Arthur, coldly calm. The man nodded uneasily and slowly sat down. "All right, Sir Gwaine. Take me to him."

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><p><strong>And so it begins...Well, eventually...Pretty soon...It <strong>**_will_****, don't worry.**

**I'm not sure when I'll be able to update, so just keep an eye and an ear out...at your own peril *lightning flashes ominously***

"**The whole world is in chess. Any move can be the death of you. Do anything except remain where you started, and you can't be sure of your end." ~ King Baldwin IV (Kingdom of Heaven)**


	2. Prats and Idiots

**Oh. You're back. *suspicious glance***

**;)**

**Wow, 9 alerts and 5 favourites on the first day alone. ****Now it's 10 faves and 24 alerts, and it's in a Community! That's mighty impressive! ****_Mille grazie, amici_**** ...I guess my warnings ****_**attract**_**** you people, like my sister to blueberries, not deter you.**

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><p>~2~ <span>Prats and Idiots<span>

Gaius was an old man, but he could keep the weakened servant lying still – until Arthur entered the room, anyway.

Merlin was on his feet like a spring. "Arthur, there's something I must—"

"Lie down, boy!" Gaius snapped. "And stay down!"

The servant easily pulled away from the physician's restraints and stumbled towards the king. His words came out in a rush. "—IgottoEaldorjustasalwaysbut—"

"Merlin! Merlin, slow down!" Arthur raised his hands, overwhelmed.

The youth snapped his teeth shut, shook his head as though impatient with himself, and sighed deeply. "I came to Ealdor over a week ago, but when I arrived, all I found was a ghost town."

Arthur reacted to this, his gaze flicking to the servant from its focus on nowhere. "A ghost town."

"Yeah, everyone was gone. Nothing but a dog and some chickens."

"...Your mother?"

Pain could not have been clearer in the sapphire eyes. "She's gone, too."

"What were the...conditions...of the town?"

"There were definite signs of struggle," said Merlin, wavering slightly where he stood. "I looked everywhere for tracks, but..." He frowned. "Eventually, I did find one sign." He started to fall limply.

Arthur lunged forward to catch him. "You'd best sit down."

"'M all right," Merlin slurred.

"No, you're not; your knees are shaking."

"There's just 'n earthquake, can't you feel it?"

With Gaius's help, the king manoeuvred the servant into a chair.

"Perhaps it would be best if he just rested, sire," said Gaius seriously.

"_No_, wait, I must finish," Merlin insisted, trying to sit up. "There was one indication that revealed where the slavers had gone."

"You think they were slavers?" asked Arthur, a hand on Merlin's shoulder to keep him still.

The servant shook his head. "What I saw...What I saw when I followed them..."

The king was surprised to hear Merlin's voice crack, and nearly break down altogether.

"There was no broken forest around Ealdor," Merlin continued forcefully after clearing his throat. "The only way they could have gone was along the road. But there were no tracks in the dust, no wheel trails, not even horse droppings. I was doubtful that rain had washed them all away; the road was splitting from being so dry. Rain hadn't come for weeks.

"I followed the road for several miles. I grew doubtful, and nearly gave up to return here, when I saw signs at last." He sighed. "Perhaps they had grown careless, for I saw a trail break through foliage, leading to a new road entirely. At first, I believed it simply to be an animal track, but then I found a quiver of forgotten crossbow bolts. I knew that it was my best shot, so I followed.

"For a few days I tracked them, losing them once in a while, but always deeper west, into Cenred's country." Again, Arthur reacted to the words.

"Go on," he said.

"I came to a tree-topped knoll, looking towards the Ridged Mountains. At the foot of them, I could see a castle being built."

"How big was it?"

"Big, and clearly going to get bigger. It was also clear that it wasn't free, willing workers building those walls."

Arthur's heart clenched. "What do you mean?"

The servant paused, and shuddered. "I could hear the whips and screams from a mile away. They were slaves, all of them." This time, Merlin had to hold back tears. "Now all of Ealdor, my mother..." He raised his hands to cover his face. "There was nothing I could do! I..."

"It's all right, Merlin," Gaius reassured, grasping the servant's shoulder.

"What happened then?" demanded the king, not unsympathetically.

"I fled. I rode as fast as I could, but ran into slavers along the way." He uncovered his face, and instead of fear or sorrow, there was angry vengeance in his eyes. "I lost the horse but managed to escape them. I returned here." He hesitated. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"_Sorry?_ I can tell you where to shove your _'sorry!'_" Arthur snapped. "Priorities, idiot! Do you think you could you lead us to that castle?"

"Definitely. Prat."

"Good." The king ignored the comeback. "Now stay here and rest. That's an_ order_."

۞ Ӂ ۞

"Surely, he must be mistaken," said Agravaine. "Or even lying to excuse his lateness."

"Merlin wouldn't lie." Arthur stared out a stained glass window in his chambers, deep in thought. "Especially not about something like this."

"But how is it possible for slavers to kidnap so many villagers without leaving any tracks?" asked the adviser, standing back near the table.

"I don't know," the king replied, and stepped away from the window. "Except for one possible reason."

"And that is, sire?"

"Sorcery."

Agravaine stared, and then snorted, but not impolitely. "I very much doubt that a filthy _slaver_ could have such power."

"Oh, and why's that?"

Agravaine didn't have an answer.

۞ Ӂ ۞

"I can't believe you actually managed to get back all the way to Camelot, Merlin."

"What do you mean?" asked the warlock, trotting his horse up besides the king's.

"You'd have had to travel for days by horse, and then longer without one. I didn't think you had that endurance in you."

"Endurance, or terrified desperation?" said Gwaine, grinning mischievously behind the pair. Merlin glowered at him.

"In fact, I'm surprised you even _found_ Camelot again," Arthur continued, an obviously-false expression of astonishment on his face. "What with the last time you wandered around in these woods, you—" He held up his fingers in quotations: "'got lost, tripped and knocked yourself out.' Remember?"

"Vividly," Merlin said flatly.

By nightfall, Merlin judged a forth day's ride would bring them to the castle. They were travelling slowly, cautiously, as to avoid detection; it was Cenred's old kingdom, after all, and though the mendacious man was three years dead, his son was said to be of no golden heart either. The company of a dozen would be considered a war party, and they doubted Cenred's descendant would let them pass unchallenged if they were caught.

"You're worried."

"What?" Merlin jumped at the sound of Arthur's voice, tearing his gaze from the evening campfire's heart.

The king came by and sat beside him. "You haven't said a word since this afternoon, and you've been chewing your lip. Something is bothering you."

"Oh, uh, _maybe_ it's because my _mother's_ been enslaved by _monsters_. I'm sorry if my concern for her is bothering you."

Arthur bit his tongue and let the servant's understandable insolence pass. "I know what it's like to lose a parent."

"She's not dead."

"I never said she was, Merlin. Just listen."

The warlock simply wrapped a blanket closer around his shoulders and returned to staring into the glowing embers, all the while wishing the king would go away and leave him alone.

"It's hard, I know. She's family. You love her. But you mustn't give up hope."

"I _haven't_ given up hope!"

Arthur stared at him, and then sighed, standing. "Fine. Have it your way. Idiot."

"Prat."

The king shook his head and departed.

۞ Ӂ ۞

They left the horses late the next evening as they neared the knoll where Merlin had spied on the forming castle. The servant had not exaggerated – they could hear the cracks of whips and howls of suffering from there.

"The soul of man can be colder than a blizzard's," said Sir Elyan gravely, shaking his head.

The city was vast, three miles long at least. There was a massive citadel to the northeast, and several mansions creeping up the mountainside. Much was still to be constructed within the walls surrounding the city.

Arthur, crouched in the grass with his troops at the knoll's peak, turned to glance behind him, and saw Merlin on his knees, holding his ears. "We've seen enough here," he said, and signalled the retreat. "We shall return to Camelot and deal with this immediately." He hadn't thought the issue to be _this_ bad. He wished that they had brought the proper resources with them, so they could handle the situation more swiftly.

The king fell back behind everyone and stood near where Merlin still remained crouched, ears covered. He resisted the urge to help him stand, and instead nudged him with his boot.

"Come on, Merlin. There's nothing we can do here right now."

It was a temptation to let the servant try to mount his horse after forgetting to tighten the girth, but the Pendragon king knew that this was not the moment to amuse himself or his men. At any other time, Merlin would shake it off and even laugh at it himself later on, but not now, not after what he had been through.

"Merlin, wait." Arthur halted the servant from putting his foot in the stirrup, before bending over and tightening the saddle girth himself. "As much as I need a laugh right now, I figure that you wouldn't take it well if you were the source of it."

No reply.

"'_Oh, gee, thanks, your highness,_'" said Arthur in a singsong voice, turning towards his own roan stallion. "'_I greatly appreciate it._'"

Still no reply as the servant mounted and fell into position.

They risked a quick canter for a couple hours on the road back. Night was falling fast, but they wanted a defensible area to camp in.

"We shall not risk a fire, either," said Arthur, and almost tasted the disgruntlement from the men. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid our safety is a bit more of a priority than hot water right now."

"Sire." Sir Leon, riding just behind the king, pointed to a figure lying on the side of the road several paces off.

Arthur abruptly raised a clenched fist, and might as well have shouted, "Company, halt!" for the efficiency that the party stopped.

He signed, "hold here," scanning the forest around them. Then he dismounted, as did Merlin, but a brief signal ordered the servant to stay his ground.

He constantly glanced from side to side, up the surrounding tree-peppered slopes, as he approached the motionless figure in the ditch, ten paces away. He resisted the urge to draw his sword in precaution. By the shape's long hair, it was probably a woman. "Madam?" He stepped ever closer, and saw that she was dead.

Because the rapid footsteps behind him were so unexpected, he was too slow to turn around before something slammed into him and knocked him sprawling. At the same time, there was a loud cracking sound, a whoosh of air and an astonished yelp.

In less than a moment, Arthur log-rolled and drew his sword as he sprang to his feet. There was no one but his startled knights and soldiers behind him, yet there was something _above_ him.

"What the—?"

Merlin was entangled in a suspended net, ten feet above the road where Arthur had nearly stepped seconds before.

Merlin struggled in the woven ropes. "It's a trap! Look—"

His voice was drowned out by squealing horses and bellowing men. Arthur saw three men fall inexplicably from the saddles, clutching their necks. Others, charging to defend their king, were helpless as a line was pulled taunt across the road and their horses were tripped, sending the riders flying. The last of them were entangled in rope or chain nets, dropped from overhead.

Arthur snapped free of his shock and immediately roared orders into the chaos, but throwing a twig into a raging sea would have had more effect. Matters only worsened as the composers of the ambush broke howling from cover and charged down the slopes on either side of the road. They tackled those still in the saddle and dragged them to the ground. The men of Camelot were helpless – the swiftness and preciseness of the ambush was impressive, and unfortunately successful.

It took three slavers to keep the chain net around Percival, and another four to keep Gwaine down. One bandit sparred with Elyan, but the knight was outnumbered and disarmed before he could rise triumphant. Leon caught a dart in the neck and fell motionless to the dust.

"_Run, Arthur!_"

The king was on the verge of charging headfirst into the fray, even as the last of his soldiers were overwhelmed, when he heard Merlin's yell. He ignored him.

"No, you stupid prat! Arthur!"

The warlock watched as the king dove into the melee, killed two slavers and bashed the head of a third before they knew he was there. Then a net was thrown over him, and he was snared.

Merlin cursed foully, twisting like a wild animal in his efforts to free himself. "_V__ĭ__nc__û__la rump__ę__!_"

It hurt when he landed, but it was a small price to pay for liberation. He left the remains of the sabotaged net above and dodged into the trees. The hill was no hindrance, and he soon lost vision of the ambush outcome. He wasn't abandoning them, of course. No, Merlin could never do that. Instead, he was going to have to do something very stupid, and rash, to free his friend and master, and the Knights of Camelot.

Little did he know that he was being watched, watched by a malevolent man with a dead, white eye.

* * *

><p><strong>Uh oh.<strong>

**Albion: never a dull moment.**

**I'll update sooner this time, I promise.**

**Rough Latin translation:  
><strong>**Vincula rumpe: Break the bonds**

"**There's a reason why we're born with brains in our heads, not rocks." ~ Brom (Eragon)**


	3. A Rope, a Spear, and a Shattering

**For those whose English is not your first language, I hope the dialect I've given the slavers won't be too much of a hindrance.**

* * *

><p>~3~ <span>A Rope, a Spear, and a Shattering<span>

"Face in the dirt, scum!"

Arthur withheld a grunt of pain as a hand grasped his hair from behind and drove his face into the road. Grit cut into his cheek and nose, and his eyes watered as his arms were yanked back too far. He could see his men with the same fate. Some struggled, most couldn't. Beyond them was the cart laden with their pillaged armour, weapons, and food, along with their horses. Arthur felt helpless without his chain mail, especially as he felt dirt scrape flesh from his belly, with nothing to protect it but his thin shirt.

"Looks lika good 'aul today, boys!"

There were whoops and cheers from the slavers, and the one holding Arthur captive gave the king's arms a celebratory tug.

"Yessir, there 're even enough to..._entertain_ us, don't you think?"

More howls. Arthur tried to look up and see the speaker, who sounded big and piratical, with a deep, guttural voice. His captor grasped tighter onto his hair and dragged his face a few inches against the dirt, and this time, he could not choke back the groan.

"Whadaya think, boys? A chicken dance?"

There were some cheers, and some boos.

"A saddle-haul?"

More cheers, less boos.

"A hangman's jig?"

Even fewer boos. The cheering went on for a long time.

Arthur sensed his captor leaning close to hiss into his ear. "It could be _you_, pretty boy," he chuckled joyfully. His breath smelled like old garlic. "The rough noose around yer pretty throat, tightening with every heartbeat, cutting yeh off from sweet cruel life, feeling yer lungs squealin' fer breath as yer hoisted into the air, legs kicking, eyes bulging, throat choking as you piss and shame yerself and you stay up there for a good long long time—"

"_Shut up!_" All fell still as the slave master cracked his nine-tailed whip in the air, screaming his order. Arthur could still feel his captor's foul breath on his neck.

"Yer a bunch of cock-suckin' fools, the lot a ya! They will _all_ live! Anyone 'oo thinks otherwise may step for'ard now."

Even the crickets had nothing to say.

"Tha's very wise of y'all," sneered the slave master, and he cracked his whip again. "Get 'em swine loaded up, c'mon!"

There were barely suppressed grumbles of discontent from the slavers, especially by Arthur's own captor, as they hauled the Camelot men to their feet and forced them towards the two horse-drawn waggons that were nothing more than cages on wheels. Furious struggles broke out as Gwaine was hauled towards the waiting cages, but he was knocked out and unceremoniously thrown into a waggon.

Arthur frantically searched for his servant. In the confusion earlier, he had forgotten to look for him. He had noticed the empty net hanging from the trees, but Merlin was nowhere to be seen. Had he escaped? Had he gone to find help?

No, the king knew he hadn't left, not for aid. Nor did he think the youth abandoned his friends out of sheer terror. Merlin wasn't like that. He was planning something, all right...but what? And what was taking so long?

"_Move it_, pretty boy!"

Arthur grunted as a spear butt hit the back of his knee. His rope-bound hands were unable to keep him from crashing to his side.

"Gettup!"

With not but a cotton shirt to protect him, the whip lash across his belly was like a smack with a white-hot poker. He curled up involuntarily, and flinched as the next blow snapped at his shoulder.

"_Gettup_, I say!"

Arthur couldn't help but cry out as the lashes continued mercilessly.

"Stop! Stop it! Leave him alone!" Sir Leon broke free from his captor and charged furiously towards the whip-wielder, hands bound behind his back. The brave knight jumped over a spear before it tripped him, and he threw himself against the sadist. As slavers leaped forward, other men of Camelot started an angry confusion, determined to protect their king.

"What is this, you _useless_ _scum?_"

There were many yelps of pain and horror as the slave master himself joined the fray and cracked his many-tailed whip on the backs of anyone close enough. "Worthless, lily-livered, swine-loving toad-suckers!"

It only took a few moments before order was reacquired.

"Get back t' work!" In the hustle in which the rest of the men of Camelot were herded to the cages, the master's gaze fell on Arthur.

The king hastily stopped searching for his servant, and focused on the grotesque man before him. He was fat, grossly so, but had a variety of weapons on every possible surface, and Arthur had no doubt he could use them all. He was mostly bald, with a wispy moustache under a bulbous nose. His left ear was half torn off, but what really caught the king's attention was the jagged scar over one of the man's eyes, the eye in question being nothing but a dead, white orb.

"Lookin' for something, Yer Majesty?"

Arthur pretended to be unsurprised that the slaver knew who he was. "What is that you want, sir?" It nearly killed him to add that word of courtesy.

The master snorted, eyebrows raised. "What do we want? Whaddaya think, yer royal hiney?"

A slaver grasped Arthur by the shoulder and prepared to steer him to a cage, but the huge master stomped up and shoved the other man away. "Get outta here." The slaver scurried away like a skittish squirrel as the master threw an arm around Arthur's shoulders. The king tried not to shudder and retch in disgust. He'd once smelled week-old onion slices that had had a better aroma than the master.

"Yer lookin' for yer friend, I know. I un'erstand, too. Y' know why? B'cause I've me own mates, believe it 'r not. An' guess what? I even know _yer_ friend. See, he an' I met a li'l ways back, but unfortunately he had t' dash. Quick, he was, lika wee bunny." He gave Arthur a little shake, as he would an old friend. "But y' know what? Y' don't have t' search anymore! Look, there 'e is!"

Arthur couldn't help but watch in astonishment as Merlin charged out of the bushes, swinging a sword and screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Merlin, no!"

The servant only made a few paces before the slave master raised an arm. A rope snaked to life and threw itself at Merlin, one end wrapping under his arm and around his neck, the rest winding around his middle and tangling his legs. The youth crashed to the ground, fighting the constricting rope wildly.

The slave master sucked his teeth gravely. "Shame. We wasted so much time trying t' capture this li'l puke. Look at 'im. No meat on 'im whatsoever." The master released Arthur and walked towards the entangled servant. Before the king could lunge after him, two slavers restrained him from behind. "I thought he might just be good sport, y' know, some fun." He picked up an abandoned spear and stood near Merlin, who was snarling in fury against his bonds. "Never got to play with 'im. Ah well, win some an' lose some." He casually stabbed the spear through Merlin's chest.

Arthur got stuck. Like a great unearthly forced had smothered him, he couldn't move, breath, or think. He only saw the spear as it was driven deeper through his best friend's body and into the ground beneath him. He couldn't hear the roars of anger from the knights in the cages, or the gasp as Death sucked the life from Merlin's lungs; only his own heartbeat drowned his ears.

Even as he broke free and rushed at the sorcerer slave master, there were no thoughts or sounds to meet him, to slow him, but an invisible line tripped him as the master side-stepped, and he crashed down beside his dying servant.

Merlin jerked in agony, pinned to the ground by the spear. He was grasping the bloodied shaft feebly, as though to pull it out. He turned his head to face Arthur, blood dribbling down the side of his mouth, breath rattling in his throat.

"...Merlin?"

The servant nearly spoke, but instead only shuddered. The king watched as the light in the sapphire eyes diminished, and Merlin died.

Arthur might have screamed in fury, but to this day, he couldn't remember if he did. He _does_ remember vowing to tear the slave master to shreds with his bare hands when he got the chance. He also remembers being tossed into a waggon cage, attacking any slaver who got too near, and then hurtling himself against the door of the prison, fighting to get out. Then a brutal hit from a spear butt in the skull ended his thoughts.

* * *

><p><strong>Please don't hurt me. I did say character whump was critical.<strong>

**...**

**"Many that live deserve death. Many that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Frodo?" ~ Gandalf the Grey (The Lord of the Rings)**


	4. A Man of Men

**I sense an air of resentment from chapter 3. Just ride the storm, mates. Only those who ride the storm reach the idyllic shores of Avalon. **

**Damn, that sounded corny.**

**How about the darkest hour is always before the dawn? No? Hm. There can be no shadows without light? No, that one doesn't fit. Meh. Just...don't give up hope! I like happy endings! Well, not ****_always_****, but...**

**And hey, Arthur ain't so bad, is he?**

* * *

><p>~4~ <span>A Man of Men<span>

Anyone who tried to speak to Arthur got his head bitten off, so they all stayed in opposite corners of the cell and held their silence, even amongst themselves. They watched their simmering leader, the rays of torch-light beaming down through the grate above darkening his eye sockets and making him seem that much more terrifying.

"Cold blood." The words startled the other inmates, and they looked to their king. "He was defenceless, lying there on the ground. He killed him in cold blood. The coward."

"Sire?" Leon ventured, and got an encouraging nudge from Elyan. "Are you alright, sire?"

"I am. He's not."

Leon felt himself drifting into dangerous waters. "...Who isn't, sire?" But Arthur didn't reply.

The Pendragon ignored his men and inspected their prison. It was a square, brick-walled hole in the ground, the one and only door being the grate above them. There were manacles attached to the walls, though, fortunately, no one had been shackled. But for the flickering torch light from above, shining in the centre, it was dark in every corner. And it stank.

There were six men in the cell, or rather, _hole_, so the other five, including Percival, must be elsewhere. They had tried to communicate a while ago, but they only heard tortured screams in the distance.

Not for the first time, Gwaine jumped the two extra feet above arm's reach and grabbed hold of the grate. He pulled himself up and tried to look down the dungeon corridor, with limited success. Leon paced along one wall, all twelve feet of it, biting his lip. Elyan helped Jack, one of the troops, care for a wound of the second soldier, a man called Bromly.

"They took my favourite sword, you know," said Gwaine to Leon, releasing the grate and dropping to his feet, trying to lighten the mood. "I killed at least _eight_ wyvern with that thing. No, really! Ask Merlin, he remembers—" The tension that rose couldn't have been cut if it was hacked at with an axe.

"Really Gwaine? Eight? That's mighty impressive," said Arthur, dangerously soft.

Leon would have thrown his boot at Gwaine if he was wearing any.

Arthur stood in his corner and stretched, grunting as taunt muscles loosened and whip welts pulled. He inspected the overhead grate carefully. It wasn't old enough to have started rusting, and so any plans on escaping with that advantage dissipated into the stench of the cell. There was nothing in there to use as a weapon, unless they found a way to strangle their captors with the manacles. They had nothing but the shirts on their backs – and pants of course.

"We could lure the guards in here," Gwaine suggested eagerly, fingering his chin, "and easily overpower them, and—"

"Don't you think that they would have taken the fact that prisoners could 'easily overpower' the guards into account, Gwaine?" Arthur ignored the ruffian's shrug of resignation. "But then, what else could we do?"

"Rot and suffer until we slowly die one by one?"

"That works, too. Have fun with that."

۞ Ӂ ۞

As the cell was so small, they had to take turns pacing. When one knight walked around for a long time, another would stand, and, cued, the first would go sit and let the other pace. They tried to entertain each other with jokes and old war stories, but they soon ran out with unspoken tales, and fell silent. Even thumb wars swiftly started to drive them mental.

"_Balrch_."

The strange, guttural sound was so alien and unexpected, that for a moment, everyone just froze in what they were doing and stared at nothing.

"_Marglugha._"

All turned to look at Gwaine.

"...What...are you _doing?_" Arthur's expression was aghast, bewildered.

The knight shrugged, leaning casually against a wall. "Don't you ever get bored on those long rides around the kingdom? Or perhaps when waiting for someone? No? Because I do, and it bugs me. So, I just open my mouth and let sounds fly. You'd be amazed with what comes unbidden out of there."

Arthur's peculiar look held firm for several more seconds. Then he slowly turned his head away.

"Do you think they'll let us out to pee?"

Arthur rolled his eyes.

۞ Ӂ ۞

In bellowed calls: "Oi! Is anyone up there? Hello?"

"Yeah! Some of us have to pee!"

In hushed voices: "Gwaine, shut up!"

They weren't really expecting anyone, but two guards approached and looked down into the grate. They were grinning.

"Wot is it, yer royal hiney?" simpered one guard, nudging his partner. "Does the high and mighty lord of Camelot need to relieve 'imself?"

"Gee, Ed, _I_ need to relieve meself," said the second, unbuckling his pants.

Leon dodged to the side of the cell. "Whoa whoa!"

"Hey, put that away before you scare the rats! We need to talk to your lord." Arthur, too, moved out of the line of fire.

"But that means we'll have ter go get 'im," whined the second guard. He grunted. "Damn, Ed. I can't pee again."

"Well, I'm sure your master would be pleased to hear that one of his captives _died_ because he didn't get medical help," Arthur said, cautiously looking up through the grate.

"Died?"

"Yeah, died. _Before_ he could be used for anything. I've no doubt that young Cenred would be very happy with that."

"It's _Lord_ Young Cenred to you...! And his name ain't _Cenred_, it's _Morgrim_...So, so it's Lord Young Cenred Morgrim to you!"

"Of all the guards to come by..." muttered Elyan.

Arthur, too, was losing patience, fast. "Fine. Go get _Morgrim_, then."

"Wot? Go get 'oo?"

"Lord Morgrim."

"And do wot, exactly?"

"_Go get 'Lord Young Cenred Morgrim' and bring his ass down here!_"

"You're very rude," said the first guard, and withdrew, pulling his friend with the full bladder alongside.

"Imbeciles," muttered Arthur.

"Goons," added Leon.

"Prats," Elyan followed.

"Nincompoops."

"Schnooks."

"Clotpoles."

"Imbeciles."

"I said that already."

It felt good to laugh, and they did so, long and heartily. There may not be a chance to do so later.

۞ Ӂ ۞

It was a whole hour later before the guards returned, backed by two giants, twins by the looks of them. They towered over the sneering guards, wore only matching trousers and steel-toed boots, and had belts across their chests, holding broadswords to their backs. They were hairless, and blood-red tattoos gave them even fiercer expressions. They also looked prepared to smash anyone's face in.

"You, pretty boy," pointed the first guard at Arthur. "Yer summoned before his 'ighness king Morgrim."

"Summoned? I _asked_ to see _him_."

"Shut yer pie hole! You, goat-lickers, get t' the sides of the cell!"

Instead of obeying, the three knights and soldiers surrounded their king protectively.

"Stand down, men," Arthur ordered gently, and they reluctantly obliged. "Take me to him," he said to the guards.

One of the two giants undid the lock on the grate before hauling it open with ease. He then reached down, unceremoniously grabbed Arthur by the back collar and pulled him out of the cell. It happened so fast, the king didn't have time to protest at the indignity of it all. Shackles where clamped around his wrists, keeping his arms bound behind his back.

The grate was thrown shut with an echoing _clang_ that rumbled away down the hall. The others were left demanding full protection for their king as the twins stood on either side of Arthur and followed the guards down the corridor. The giants were almost two heads taller than the Pendragon, but he didn't let his wariness show.

Though the dungeon couldn't have been very old, it already reeked of blood, unwashed bodies and fear. Lit by malicious orange-tongued torches that were a poor substitute of life-giving sunlight, they echoed with groans and screams from the throats of the enslaved. Not only were the villagers kidnapped for forced labour, by the sounds reverberating around the prison, they were tortured as well. Arthur resisted the urge to cover his ears against the horror.

_This is what I'm dealing with_, he thought._ This is what I must overcome, bring an end to. I shall tear this Lord Morgrim from his throne of slavery, __if I must face the deepest recesses of Hades to do so, I swear it._

They climbed a set of stairs and passed through a tall, narrow door, and left the terrors of the dungeon behind. After a few more corridors, they arrived in quarters more suited for royalty, even malevolent royalty. Though made on the whip-lashed backs of slaves, Arthur couldn't help but admire the stonework and design. It was clearly still under construction in places, but what was there was breathtaking, with tapestries of battles, statues of ancient heroes, and paintings of dragons and castles. There were large stained glass windows bumping their heads on the high ceiling, glamourous chandeliers dangling at intervals, exotic vases sitting proudly on chestnut tables...

The beauty, the extravagance, the awe-inspiring grandeur – all but a pale mask of falseness. Looking at one of the intricately-carved archways, swirling with twisting serpents, Arthur wondered how many died putting up the wall around it, how many were tortured, beaten, mutilated forever. Unconsciously, he felt himself fingering for a sword hilt that wasn't there.

_Merlin's mother is among them_, he thought, and felt his throat close. What was he going to tell her? Merlin prioritized her life over his own, and she knew it, but she would never want him to die for her. She will probably fade away in despair with the news of the loss of her son.

Again, he felt involuntary movements, coaxed on by snarling anger, taking control of his body. His teeth gritted, his brow furrowed, his palms itched to grasp a sword and slaughter all those responsible for this mass murder, and the death of his friend. He would start with the sorcerer slave master.

"My Lord Severus."

Arthur barely managed to catch himself from throwing his hands around the slaver's neck as he turned the bend – which would have been difficult anyway, considering that his wrists were bound behind his back. He paled at the sorcerer's dead white orb of an eye as it fell on him, but not out of fear. Disgust flowed through his veins, making him restless.

The guard who had announced the slave master straightened from a low, grovelling bow and stepped aside, signalling the others to do the same. It was clear that this Severus was a powerful and feared man, but that was understandable, considering his sorcery and his cruel malice towards the life and freedom of others.

Severus snorted rudely in distaste as he waddled through the parted company, but sneered at Arthur on the way. The king formed a ball of saliva in his mouth before realizing that spitting on the slaver might not be such a wise move. The foul man departed, leaving the nauseating stench of rancid onions behind.

The twin giants nudged Arthur gently back into position, though their ability of gentle nearly knocked him sprawling.

"Oops," one grunted, catching the Pendragon before he fell on his face.

It was only moments later that they arrived at the grand doors of the throne room. The doors opened on freshly oiled hinges to emit the escort, and they were pleasantly bombarded by bright sunlight gushing through the tall windows on both sides of the long room. Marble pillars dominated either wall, upholding a high ceiling, but Arthur's gaze was locked on the cocky man sitting jauntily in a golden throne at the far end. He was handsome, dark haired with cool green eyes. There was a crown on his head that was so laden with jewels, it was hideous.

Lord Morgrim stood, arms spread and greeting Arthur like an old friend, like a brother.

"Arthur Pendragon! What a wondrous occasion this is!"

Arthur was appalled when the man actually _embraced_ him.

"But you must be hungry," Morgrim said, releasing him and holding him at arm's length. Was that mockery in his emerald gaze? "I simply must insist that you dine with me. Come – oh, and Righty, if you please..." He indicated at Arthur's shackles. Righty, one of the giants, unlocked the cuffs behind the king's back, and he was freed.

"Thank you, Righty," said Arthur, and the giant blinked, as did Lord Morgrim.

"You...you are dismissed," staggered the lord, waving the four men away.

Morgrim inconspicuously glanced at the king repeatedly on the way to the dining hall, or, he _thought_ it was inconspicuous: Arthur noticed every look. He pretended not to, and held a proud, unfazed composure. _Don't intimidate him, necessarily_, he instructed mentally. _Just throw him off-guard. Be strong. Show him what a _real_ lord is like_.

The dining hall was no less marvellous than the rest of the completed parts of the fortress. Though there were just the two of them eating by the looks of things, the table groaned under the weight of delicacies spread out on silver platters.

"Please, sit anywhere," said Morgrim, which meant, "Sit near my overly-designed chair at the head of the table."

Arthur obliged, and tried not to glare at the food. By their content, they were only appetizers – there was enough to feed several families in Camelot, perhaps a whole village.

As to not appear rude, Arthur ate and drank, but little, especially when it came to the wine. He wanted to keep his head as clear as possible, for he had no doubt that Morgrim was really a fox in a cloak of finery, a fox with a cunning snake around his shoulders.

"Lord Morgrim," said Arthur, struggling to retain the tightness from his voice, "this is a...fine castle you've built." _On the beaten shoulders of innocents!_ he raged inwardly.

"It _is_ magnificent, isn't it." There was no room for question. "And you hate it."

Arthur coughed on his sip of wine. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, come now, Arthur! I can nearly _taste_ the disgust radiating from you! It's almost amusing."

The king was unsure of how to reply. Morgrim's smile would make women swoon, but it pissed him off.

"I've enslaved hundreds of people. You are a man of the people, if tales prove true. You can't _possibly_ agree to my choice of lifestyle."

_Hundreds!_ "No, I'm afraid I don't."

Morgrim tossed back the rest of his wine, and then carelessly indicated a servant forward to refill it. "Don't be afraid. You are in my court, you are my guest. Guests in my court may speak their minds."

_I very much doubt that._

"What is it that disturbs you, my lord, of forced labour? Hm? Why should the lives of lesser men concern you?"

Again, Arthur was at a loss for an answer.

"They were born low, shouldn't that mean they should die low as well?"

"No," said Arthur, fingering his goblet in what he hoped appeared to be a casual manner. "I don't believe that."

"Ah, so the stories _are_ true," said Morgrim, flicking a large red grape into his mouth. "You really are a man of men. A protector of the weak. Guardian of peasants. Which reminds me," he added, pausing in his next intake of grapes. "An old acquaintance of my father's once told me of a shadow you had. He always followed you around, a real fool of a man, low bred, but he was your best friend. What was his name – the acquaintance hated him – Marlin? Mervin—?"

"Merlin."

"That's the one, Merlin. How is he?"

"Dead."

"Oh, I'm very sorry to hear that," replied Morgrim, sounding like he had just said, "What fine weather we're having today."

"Yeah. Me too."

The lord caught the saltiness in Arthur's words. "...Whatever happened to him, I'm sure it wasn't _my_ fault."

"Not directly."

Morgrim added some cheese to have with the grapes. "Well, what can I say? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a servant for...well, actually, a father."

Arthur glanced at him questionably. "What?"

Morgrim's tone grew very dark as he leaned towards the king. "You killed my father, Cenred II, Arthur Pendragon."

For the third time, Arthur was silenced. His wine goblet hung halfway up from the table.

"No...No, I _didn't_."

"No, you didn't." The dashing smile flew across the lord's face again. "The witch Morgause killed him. I just wanted to see how you would react."

It was getting harder and harder for Arthur to predict anything about the man. His heart was a black hole, for sure, but it was distinctly sugar-coated.

The king had to suffer through a few more courses before Morgrim spoke to him again. "So, let's talk business."

"Business, my lord?"

"Aye, business. Treaty. Alliance. You know, grown-up stuff."

Was he mocking him still?

"I don't believe I fully understand you. Why would we talk about that?"

Morgrim finished swallowing a mouthful of roast duck before speaking. "You were prancing around in my kingdom with a rather large company of armed men, Arthur. You can't possibly think that I'm just going to let that by."

"We had perfectly legitimate reasons for 'prancing:' your kidnapping of hundreds of innocent villagers, and not only in your kingdom."

Arthur was sure that when Morgrim tilted his head back, placed his hands on the table and sighed with exasperation, it was all for show. "Severus! I _told_ him not to harv—_recruit_ anyone outside Essetir. That oafish man!"

The king pushed through the mendacious air. "Two of those villages were in Camelot. Others were in Bayard's. If _that's_ not a sign of aggression, I don't know what is."

"But my dear Arthur! Severus was working under his own flag when he took those villages. You can't expect me to know _all _of the goings on when it comes to that man. He's a loose stallion, that one."

_Yes, yes, you_ are _expected to know_. "So release them. They are not yours."

"Judging by your own creed, they are not _yours_ either. Anyway, how do you suppose I do that? Free them, I mean. Any one of those grovelling mongrels could be from Camelot. In fact, if I order all those from Camelot to step forward, there is no doubt that most of them will, regardless of where they're really from. So you see the dilemma."

Arthur thought he couldn't loath the man more. But as his disgust burrowed through the floor of his cauldron of hate, he felt his fist clench around the bread knife on the table.

"That would be unwise."

Morgrim wasn't looking at Arthur's tightened fist, but the king had no doubt that that was what the lord was speaking of. He feigned dumbness. "My lord?"

"You have great skill in battle, I've heard," said Morgrim, picking at baked wood pigeon. "Your forte is the mace, but your abilities with a sword and lance are unmatchable, legendary. I do not doubt that you can throw a knife accurately either. However, you may have noticed the men standing at intervals, watching us dine."

All at once, several sets of eyes seemed to penetrate the king from all around. He glanced across the hall nonchalantly, into the shadows behind supporting pillars. "You have bodyguards."

Morgrim chuckled. "In a way, yes. Not your..._average_ bodyguards, though."

"Ah. Sorcerers."

The lord watched the king carefully. "You aren't threatened?"

"Should I be?"

There was that annoyingly charming smile again. "I like you, Arthur Pendragon. I think we will greatly profit from an alliance." He hoisted his goblet high. "Here's to Essetir and Camelot! Eternal allies...!" He glanced at the chalice left on the table near Arthur's hand, and then pointedly raised his own a little more.

The look the Pendragon king gave would have made demons tremble. Morgrim lifted his eyebrows and lowered the cup. "Well then."

"Lord Morgrim, I want you to release my people, and all those innocents you have so wrongfully enslaved."

"We all want things, Arthur, including me. But _need_ is so much more important than _want_, and, you see, I _need_ my castle built before winter kills us all. This is the only way."

"The only way? Separating brothers and sisters, husbands and wives? Starving the weak and overworking the strong? Whipping helpless children in front of their parents—?"

"What? That's preposterous! There's no way we can whip children before their parents! They've already been torn from their gra—_guards!_"

Arthur couldn't laugh at the shrill squeal as Morgrim ordered his protectors to save him, especially because of the red, burning tendrils of light that roped around his arms and shoulders, preventing him from lunging at the lord with the butter knife.

"You'll regret this, 'Lord' Morgrim! You'll regret all you have done! I'll kill you for this treachery! This devilry! This inhumanity! You—will—_pay!_"

* * *

><p><strong>I had fun writing about those two guards... ;)<strong>

"**What man is a man who does not make the world better?" ~ Balien of Ibelin (Kingdom of Heaven)**


	5. The Selfish Mourn, the Noble Remember

**I just got a chill...**

**I think I'm getting the cold shoulder here from many...With reason, I suppose...**

* * *

><p>~5~ <span>The Selfish Mourn, the Noble Remember<span>

He was alone when he woke up. Alone, and in pain.

He unstuck his bloodied mouth from the floor of the pit cell and groaned as his head throbbed like a drum with every heartbeat. Stickiness coated his nose and chin, tasting of the metallic tang of blood. He rolled onto his back, feeling the agony course through his whole body, as though he had just rolled down the rocky slopes of a jagged mountain and into a river of glass teeth. Then he noticed that his hand was suspended. One arm had been manacled to the wall, and his wrist and shoulder were paying the price.

Arthur pushed himself up, moaning, and sat against the wall to relieve the strain on his shackled right arm. Then he became aware of the wounds: burns and gashes, cuts and bruises. Blistering scorch marks lashed across his back and chest, down his legs, across his shoulders and around his arms. Though he couldn't see it, for his shirt covered him, he could feel a piece of skin hanging loose from his upper chest. By the pained splotches all over his body, showing red through his tattered shirt, there were pinches of missing flesh everywhere. Every time he breathed, razor blades sliced across his belly.

_What happened to me?_ He couldn't remember. At least, nothing vividly. There was a faint smidgeon of recollection involving a dark room of chains, a smear of cold light, and a gleeful, taunting chuckle...That was all.

"Why can't I remember?" he asked himself in the darkness. _Have I suppressed the memory?_

The cell was putrid with the stench of his own blood and sweat. There was a dim light shining from above, just enough for him to see his once white shirt was now black. He touched it with his free hand, feeling the stiffness of the material. There was so much dried blood, he wondered how he hadn't passed out from the loss. He reached under the shirt and felt a loose piece of flesh on his stomach, and swallowed bile. There were sections like that covering his whole body, and all were tasty nibbles for rats.

Rats. He hated rats. He remembered when Merlin tried feeding him rat because of a major food shortage...

Merlin. Damn the man. Why did he have to die?

If he were here, he would know, from Gaius's teachings, how to sooth burns and treat open hurts to prevent the rats from feasting on him alive. Even if there were none of those similar-appearing and immensely boring herbs around, the servant would have torn up his own shirt to bind the wounds and stop the bleeding.

_He was a good man_, Arthur thought regretfully. _A good friend. But I treated him like horse shit. _

_And now he's gone_.

There was a pain in his chest, a deep ache, but not from any physical wound. With the pain came memories.

**Ͼ **

"_Ready?"_

"_Would it make any difference if I said no?"_

"_Not really." Arthur spun around, sword already aimed for the overly-armoured youth standing awkwardly in the middle of the field. He bellowed the attacks before they arrived, giving Merlin a slight fighting chance._

"_Body!" _Clang! _"Shield!" _Clunk!_ "Body!" _Whack!_ "Shield!" _Clang!_ "Head!" _Bonggg!

"_Ow!"_

"_Come on, Merlin!" Arthur danced around his incompetent opponent and nipped his sword tip into the others' back. "You're not even trying!" _

"_I _am!_"_

"_Once more."_

"_Oh no."_

"_To the left!" _Bang!_ "Right!" _Clang!_ "And left!" _Clink!_ "Head!" _Bonnggg!

"Ow!_"_

"_Come _on_, Merlin! I've got a tournament to win."_

_Merlin staggered haphazardly in a daze. "Can we stop now, please?" _

_Ever merciless, Arthur swished his sword around in one hand, and came at the servant again. Merlin's eyes widened behind the confining slits of the weighty helmet at his impending doom._

_The prince's sword sliced across his front._

"_Oww!"_

"_Shield!" _Whack!_ "Body!" _Bang!_ "Shield!" _Clink!_ "Head!"_

_Merlin grunted as Arthur's sword hit him once, twice, three times across the helmet, and it rang shrill in his ears. The prince stilled to a rest while Merlin wavered on his feet, swaying like a sapling, and then fell limply onto his backside. As he flattened to the grass, his helmet bounced off his head and rolled away._

"Uuuhhg._"_

"_You're braver than you look," said Arthur, standing over the youth casually. "Most servants collapse under the first blow."_

_Merlin tried to raise his head. "Is it over?"_

_Arthur blinked as though surprised. "This is the _warm up_." He raised from behind his back a handle attached to a chain, the end of which swung a spiked metal ball. "How's your mace work coming along?"_

_Merlin moaned._

**Ͼ**

A grin spanned unbidden across the king's face as he sat against the wall, head back, eyes closed. Those were the easy days. No kingdom to run, no tedious council meetings or condescending advisers. Just training, hunting trips, training, bossing Merlin around, more training...

Arthur remembered the first week of Merlin's service vividly. He had thought him such a _fool_—in fact, he _still_ thinks he's a fool, but a trusted fool, nonetheless. Even years later, his service was questionable.

**Ͼ**

"_Merlin is my servant. He has my absolute trust. You have a problem with him, you come to me." Arthur crossed his arms. "Do you understand?"_

_Halig bowed stiffly. "Sire." The bounty hunter began retreating from the room. "Good luck, Merlin," he said mockingly, and leaned into the servant's ear. "Don't forget your dinner." He nodded in indication at the ground, and departed._

_Merlin turned to the prince. "Thank you—" He paused when he noticed Arthur staring at his feet, inevitably at the three sausages lying on the floor. "...Ah."_

"_Are those _my_ sausages?"_

_Merlin scratched his jaw sheepishly, nodding._

"_You took them."_

"_...To keep you in shape!" the servant said cheerfully, crouching down to pick them up._

"_You saying I'm fat?"_

"_No!" Merlin paused. "Well, not yet."_

"_I am _not—fat!_"_

"_You see? It's working!" The servant grinned and left the prince annoyed, bewildered, and checking his waistline._

**Ͼ**

Arthur could laugh at it now, and he did so, but the jovial echoes sounded so out of place that he stopped quickly.

His trust for Merlin had wavered that day, but it strengthened and firmed like a loose tooth, just like every other time. The servant had never given him any true reason to doubt him. In many ways, he felt that Merlin had been like a little brother.

**Ͼ**

"_Ah, Merlin. I've been looking for you."_

_Merlin paused in his shining of the many boots lined up beside him, owned by the knights of Camelot. "Yep, um, right, uh, you're going to ask me to polish your armour and to wash your clothes and clean your room." He continued to shine the leather in silence._

_He looked so sad, almost pathetic, sitting there on the floor surrounded by boots and smelling of polish. There was a definite air of sorrow about him, and though Arthur wasn't sure why that was, he found that he really didn't like it. Merlin was the cheerful one. He's always the cheerful one. When he wasn't cheerful, Arthur wasn't cheerful either. In fact, he was _annoyed_ when Merlin wasn't cheerful, more so than when he _was_ cheerful, if that makes any sense._

_The prince came over to the youth and sat down beside him, where he was pointedly ignored. He wrapped his arms around his knees and studied him, before sighing. "Something's been upsetting you, hasn't it." It wasn't really a question._

_There was a slight hesitation in Merlin's polishing. "Maybe."_

_Arthur frowned, but not darkly. "Was it when I threw water over you?"_

_Merlin snorted, a light smile showing on his face. "Wasn't very nice."_

"_'Twas a bit unfair," the prince agreed, nodding grimly. Merlin continued waxing intently. Arthur's jaw jutted forward."Like when you called me _fat_."_

_The servant blinked, and then looked at him curiously. "Why was that unfair?"_

"_Because I am _not_ f—"_

_Arthur saw the expression on the idiot's face, and suddenly knew. With a barely suppressed smile, Merlin proceeded with his chore. Arthur attacked._

_Looping an arm around Merlin's neck, the prince pulled him into a headlock and drove his knuckles into his skull with a vengeance._

_Merlin protested, squirming. "Ah—ow!"_

"_Still think I need to get into shape?"_

"_No! No, no no no no! I—uh—"_

_Arthur shoved him roughly away, but he was grinning._

_Merlin gingerly touched the top of his head, then gave the prince a flabbergasted look of baffled amusement. The gloomy air was gone._

"_That's better," said Arthur._

_Though slightly puzzled, the servant replied,"Thanks." _

**Ͼ**

Why was he _really_ depressed that day?

Arthur felt himself sliding into sleep despite himself.

_Guess I'll never know_.

* * *

><p>"Wake up, pretty boy."<p>

The surprise of hearing the nasally voice was nothing compared to the shock of a bucket's worth of water exploding in his face.

"Idiot! What am I supposed to use to clean him now? Go refill it, you barmy tosspot!"

Arthur straightened and furiously wiped water from his face, coughing and snorting. He suddenly felt a calloused hand firmly grasp his chin and pull his face towards a candle. His eyes watered at the abrupt light, but he was just able to see the gaunt, aged man inspecting him, too closely. He also saw a second figure climbing from the cell, an empty bucket at hand.

The old man sounded as though his nose was plugged. "Ah, yes. Quite the specimen we have here."

_Specimen?_

Arthur struggled, and the man cuffed him about the ear.

"Hold still, damn you!"

Shock, not the command, actually kept the king motionless as the old man inspected his wounds.

"Damn those _wizards_ with their damn _magic_ and damn _pride_ and damn..." His nasally complaints dwindled to unintelligible mutterings as he started pulling off Arthur's blood-encrusted shirt. The king protested, and got another cuff.

"Will you stop that!" Arthur snapped, and received yet a third cuff.

"_You_ stop that!" the man ordered, and Arthur figured that this geezer must have been a father for many, many years.

"Well, what the hell are you _doing?_"

"What does it _look_ like, boy?" The old man reached behind him into a sack, and pulled out a jar of dark, cynical origins. "Half your skin's gone! You can't possibly think you will walk away whole from all this."

"I very much doubt I'll walk away from anything at all anyway."

"Oh, don't talk like that, ol' sod." His voice was suddenly very gentle. "Now, let me see."

Arthur cautiously let the old man pull the shirt over his head so it hung around his shackled arm, seeing as he couldn't do it himself. The healer frowned, and then brought the candle closer before sighing. Arthur, too, frowned. It was never good to hear a physician sigh.

"This is much worse than I was told," the man grumbled impatiently, leaning back and scratching his balding head.

The king warily glanced down at himself, and paled.

Now with the shirt gone, he could, not only feel, but _see_ the damage done to him, all of which he couldn't remember happening. That chunk of skin on his chest that he had felt hanging free earlier flopped grotesquely away, revealing raw muscle and ivory ribs beneath. There were lacerations across his belly, like it had been ravaged by a rabid wolf. Everywhere on his abdomen and arms were missing pinches of flesh, as though the rats had come and feasted wherever they wanted. When he even so much as twitched, it felt like someone had stuck splinters of glass into his muscles.

"Bloody mages! Them and their damn witchfire and damn interrogation-hungering—!"

_Interrogation? I was questioned?_

"Sir, what happened to me?" asked Arthur, tearing his gaze away from the sticky, pussy mess that was his own flesh.

"You can't remember? Well, that's good, I suppose."

"What was I interrogated for? Did I say anything about anything?"

"I was not there, laddie. And I'm glad for it. We must get you to my chambers before you die of infection."

When Arthur moved, it was like a thousand sets of needle-like claws sliced at his skin all at once. He couldn't withhold the cry of pain, and his vision swam.

"Don't move, you young fool," the old healer snapped halfheartedly. He stood, picking up the sack of salves. "Where's that boy? Nib! Where are you? Come here, Nib!"

There was a rapid-fire of scuttling feet above, and a head peaked into the cell, casting a shadow below.

"Tell Nob that we are taking this one to my chambers. He's in critical need of real aid at this very moment...Well, go on! You'll find him at the well."

The shadow disappeared.

The man put a quick bandage to hold the flab of skin against Arthur's body, hiding the bone. "And we'll give you this for the pain." He unscrewed a bottle of green mush and crouched down beside the king. He scooped out a glob with his fingers and rubbed it onto the wounds. Instantly, there was a coolness that penetrated and tamed the agony. Arthur sighed with relief, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them several minutes later, there was a guard unlocking the manacle from his wrist, and he grunted as his strained arm suddenly fell limply to his side.

"Lefty, if you will..."

With the nasally word from the healer, one of the twin giants dropped down into the cell and picked up Arthur as though he were a bundle of rags, which was all the king felt like. Light flooded his vision as he was passed up to Righty, the second giant.

"I can walk," grunted Arthur, and he rolled himself out of Righty's arms. He stumbled several paces, but his pride caught his balance against the wall, and he straightened. Though his legs pulsed numbly, trying to prove that they were in pain despite the medication, he ignored them, and he even managed to pull his shirt back on properly without help. He was the king of Camelot. He wasn't going to let a few bumps and cuts weigh him down.

Righty reached down into the cell and helped his twin, the guard, and the physician get out, and as the giant was distracted, Arthur turned tail and ran.

Calls of alarm pursued him down the dungeon corridor. He put on another burst of speed and found a staircase leading out of the prison. Taking the steps three at a time, he burst through the door at the top, knocking a guard flying in the process, and charged away down the passage.

He soon wondered what the hell he was thinking. That he was going to make a miraculous escape, save his companions, free the slaves and be the hero? Say it was all in a day's work? He felt stupid! There was no way he could avoid recapture, not in his state. Even now, he could hear the slap of leather boots on cold stone behind him, hot in pursuit. Sounds of construction suddenly became very clear as he rounded a corner, into a corridor that was only half-complete. One wall and the ceiling had yet to be erected, and just as fresh air swarmed over him, reality, which he had left behind in the dungeons, caught up with him and slammed into his body, squeezing his lungs and kicking his head. His vision swam like a drunken fish and he had no choice but to stop. He sagged, hands on his knees, just as a guard tackled him from behind.

The air whooshed from his chest as he was crushed beneath the armoured man. He was hauled to his feet, groaning, arms held behind his back, and all the while the guard snapped and cursed at him. Arthur was faced with the open half of the unfinished corridor, and so he was able to see out into daylight. He wished he couldn't. He wished, to the end of his days, that he had never seen what he saw.

The cranes, lifts, and other mechanisms involved with construction were all swarming with a continuous wave of motion. Bodies. Countless slaves, all working, all suffering under the rapid cracks of satanic whips. It was a massive expansion of the citadel; Arthur could make out the large hall being erected across the way. The howls, the screams, the wails for aid fell on cold stone ears of the slave drivers. They were sounds that Arthur knew would haunt his nightmares for all eternity. There was no mercy in the cruelty, no pause in the screams, no hope for salvation.

Punishment was not an alien word here. In fact, it must be the lead of everyone's mind. If a man stopped, he was hung. If a woman or child stopped, too weary and hopeless to carry on, their fates were no less final or brutal. Arthur could see their sad, decomposing corpses swinging sorrowfully from beams and rails, loved only by flies and crows.

The healer and twin bodyguards chose that time to catch up. The aged physician was wheezing, clutching his chest. He started swearing nastily at Arthur, until he saw what he saw, and paled.

"Damn. You shouldn't have seen this."

Shackles soon clasped Arthur's wrists before him, and he was led gently but urgently down the half-built corridor. The king followed mindlessly. He could not rip his eyes from those of the young boy dangling mournfully from a scaffolding, miraculously not yet consumed by ravens.

"Oh damn! There's Severus and Romulus. Must get away—" The warning was not fast enough, and they came face to face with none other than the slave master himself. Severus stood with a faceless man, who was leaning against a pillar, inspecting the clawed gauntlets on his hands. He was tall and lean, with greasy black hair hanging down from one side of his deep hood. A long cloak that seemed to swallow light hung from his scrawny frame. He leered at the approaching company from under the cowl, green flames flickering from his fingertips. He was a sorcerer, just like Severus.

The old healer bowed stiffly with his arthritic joints at the two men, the guard put a clenched fist to his chest and bent at the waist, and the two giant twins followed the guard's example but also got to one knee, making themselves shorter than the slave master. Arthur just stared, not bothering to hide the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. Severus's lips curled back over broken teeth in a demonic smile, and he pointed out under an archway towards something just out of sight. Arthur automatically stepped forward to see what the man was indicating to, but deeply regretted it.

The desecrated corpse that was once a beloved friend hung crudely from a rickety beam, surrounded by a score of suspended skeletons. Even though his body was drained white of blood, and the crows had eaten half his face, Merlin was unmistakable.

Arthur vomited.

* * *

><p><strong>...<strong>

***curls up and hides in fetal position from furious onslaught of disgusted readers***

**Credit to BBC's Merlin season 1 episode 2 "Valiant" and season 2 episode 9 "The Lady of the Lake" for Arthur's memories.**

**"I still cry, sometimes, when I remember you. I still cry, sometimes, when I hear your ****name. I said goodbye, and I know you're all right now, but when the leaves start falling down, I still cry...But when the leaves start falling down, I still cry." ~ Ilse Delange ('I Still Cry')**


	6. Fight or Flight

****Pissed off from that last chapter? Please don't get mad at me! I did say whump level was critical.****

**Whump. What a strange word.**

**...Whump...**

**Ahem. Go on, then.**

* * *

><p>~6~ <span>Fight or Flight<span>

"Ill as well as injured. How pleasurable is that?"

Arthur's whole chest was wrapped in gauze as he lay on the apothecary bed. The old healer, who the king figured out was named Bartholomew, muttered to himself as he finished applying a rather smelly substance to his arm and began to bandage the whole limb.

Nob, one of the physician's assistants, was taking away Arthur's old shirt to burn. Nib, the other assistant, was trying to feed Arthur oatmeal gruel, but the king knew that it was laced with a sleeping draft, and he didn't want to sleep. He kept turning his head away like a stubborn child as the laden spoon approached.

"I'm not ill," he said sluggishly, and he scowled. The water they gave him must have had the sleeping draft, not the food.

"Well, unless you get sick at the sight of hanging bare bones and not decomposing corpses, then you _are_ ill, sir."

"'Hanging bones?'!" Arthur tried to sit up in anger, but he was weak, and Bart easily kept him down.

"Rest now, young master. Sleep is the best cure, I always say. That and sunlight." Bart went to open a window, which instantly magnified the sound of Hell from outside. He yanked the squeaky shutters closed. "Um, maybe not today."

"Why are you doing this?" asked Arthur, half dozing but fighting to stay awake. "Why are you healing me?" Nib took the opportunity of the king's open mouth to shove in a spoonful of oatmeal.

"Orders." His work done, the physician sat on a stool by the bedside. "The Torturer, Romulus, prefers his victims healthy every time he interrogates them, I'm afraid. It shouldn't be a surprise, though. You've seen what he looks like. He was with Severus earlier today."

As he choked down the gruel, Arthur recalled the tall, faceless man in the ebony cloak and clawed gauntlets, the sorcerer. "I remember. He did this to me?"

"I imagine so," said Bartholomew grimly. He suddenly looked old, very old, older than he really was. He was definitely a man who has seen much hell from this creature, this Torturer.

"Why don't you just leave?" asked the king, and the physician blinked.

"Leave? I can't leave. Not when they have my..." He faded away, then busied himself with packing away loose ointments.

"What could they have interrogated me for?" Arthur asked, mostly to himself. Essetir and Camelot had been enemies for many years, but when Cenred the king was killed, and Morgause and her immortal army defeated, there were no quarrels from either kingdom for a long time. Until the kidnappings.

"Just rest now, good lord," said Bart, touching him lightly on the shoulder, and he departed.

۞ Ӂ ۞

Again, he was alone when he opened his eyes, but, thankfully, he wasn't in pain. The night was reigning and his head was clear. It was time to move.

Arthur found a shirt and pants on the bedside table as he rolled from the mattress, landing on silent cat feet. Pulling them on, he saw from the moonlight seeping through a crack in the shutters a pair of boots near the table. He slipped those on, too, and was pleased to find that they were already broken into, and so not creaky.

He listened hard for any guards outside the single apothecary door. He heard a throat being cleared and a light thunk of a halberd butt hitting the stone floor. Though he expected them, he really wished they weren't there.

_I'm just a helpless king, bedridden by torture-induced wounds. There's no reason to guard me...Go_ away.

He could have tried to telepathically order the soldiers to leave all night if he was foolish enough. Instead, he migrated to the window, and very nearly opened the shutters. He paused with his hands on the knobs, then stepped back, frowning. With a quick glance behind him, he stepped out of the thin stream of moonlight and a clay jar was illuminated on the table. Striding to it, Arthur also saw a plate of food. He hastily downed the bread crust and wrapped the chunk of dried meat up in a handkerchief before slipping it into his pocket. He drank whatever was in the goblet, suddenly realizing how thirsty he was, and finally picked up the clay jar. Inside there was a greasy substance that he neither recognized nor cared to recognize. He took it back to the window and smeared the gunk onto the hinges. Fortune smiled upon him as the shutters opened like silent wings.

The wooden-framed glass was a bit trickier, but he succeeded in lifting it and leaving the apothecary without a sound. He hung from the sill on the outside, and, knowing that he couldn't close the window after leaving, he let go and landed in the dust seven feet below. He somersaulted to curb the impact, and stopped behind a pile of stone blocks. There was no alarming cry from any sentry, so he knew his escape had been victorious.

Scanning his surroundings, he found himself on a dark path of dirt. There was not a soul in sight, and he jogged down the road, wary of guards. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he ran with the shadows. The area was clear of workers, but sounds of forced labour were heard in the near distance. He would still have to muffle any sound he could to avoid detection.

He slipped into an alcove as a troop of six armoured men marched past, and he held his breath. The company disappeared into the darkness around a corner, but still Arthur held his position.

What was he thinking of accomplishing? What did he hope to achieve? He was wandering aimlessly, alone, lost, weak, and praying for a miracle. He had no idea where he would find his companions; even if he managed to locate the half-built corridor where he saw the poor hanging corpses, and from there his old cell, he had no idea where the others would be from there. Well, it was the best shot he had, anyway, so he pressed on in search of that corridor.

When a foul stench bombarded his nostrils, he figured that he was on the right track. The reek of dead, desecrated bodies and the courtyard of corpses came into the king's radar. There were no labouring slaves now, but as he rounded about a huge stack of barrels and into the arena, he grimaced. The dead unfortunates hung like grotesque wind chimes in the night's breeze, some fresh, others but bare bones. How long has this been going on, all this inhumanity? Weeks, months, or even years?

He felt his eyes pass over every one of them, all outlined in silver from the cold, indifferent moon. Unbidden, he sought out his friend's remains, but where they should have been were only hanging bones, bleached ivory from the sun, now just ghastly spectres in shreds of clothing. Merlin was gone.

The king went numb. Where did he go? If he was there, Arthur would have cut him down and then...What? Given him a proper burial? In the middle of the night, with guards all about and not even a spade or a place to dig?

_Fool!_ He forced himself to stop looking.

"You! Halt!"

His heart jumped a league as he heard two sets of armoured boots running towards him from behind. Without looking around, Arthur bolted forward, into the shadows of a lift.

"I said _halt!_"

The two guards neared. Arthur stepped from behind the lift, grappled the first man and promptly snapped his neck. The second guard choked on his breath and tried to flee, but Arthur tackled him from behind before putting one hand by the man's temple and the other under his chin, ready to twist.

"No! Wait! Don't kill me!" The sentry's sob was so desperate that Arthur hesitated. He suddenly smelled the sharp tang of urine, and realized that the guard had peed himself. "I'm begging you, _please!_"

_He's scared. He's actually scared._ Arthur stood, pulling the man up with him but not removing his hand from across his mouth and nose. His other arm held the guard's neck.

He hissed into the man's ear. "Do as I say, or I'll kill you." He rolled his eyes at how lame he sounded, but the guard took him very seriously.

"I—I will, I s-swear! Please, what do you want?"

"I want you to shut up. Tell me your name." He noticed his contradictory orders. The guard held his silence, so the king shook him. "_Tell me._"

"Sean, sixth regiment, forth—"

"Shh!" Arthur pulled Sean behind the lift as a sentry came into view on a wall above. The king slowly brought the man into the half-built corridor and back roughly towards the direction from whence he had fled from his captors. He got lost.

"I'm going to let you go now," whispered Arthur coarsely. "If you make a sound..." The threat was more obvious than the guard's fear. Sean nodded shortly, nervously, and Arthur loosened his arm from around his neck. He kept as taunt as a drum skin, but the soldier didn't bolt, and instead just stood there, quaking. From the light of a torch, Arthur saw that he was young, very young, younger than Arthur was when he had killed his first man. And for that, the king somehow felt that he could trust him.

_Crazy!_ he screamed at himself. _You're crazy! He's one of Morgrim's men. Do _not_ trust him_.

"Take me to the dungeon. And if you try anything rash..." Again the threat hung like a bad smell.

Sean nodded quickly, reminding Arthur of a terrified mouse, and he immediately turned and led the way down the hall.

It was strange, but the youth seemed to keep to the shadows as though _he_ were the one that could be killed on sight, the one at risk. Arthur supposed that it was because he _was_ at risk, helping the kingdom's greatest enemy so.

Sean held up a hand to keep the king from proceeding as he peeked around a corner. "Okay, let's go."

Arthur stuck by Sean's side, turning what seemed like random corners, and then they heard the most unexpected cry—

"_Look! A distraction!_"

A flurry of armour boots on stone floor succeeded the call, along with hollers to hold and a kerfuffle of metal on metal. Then there were startled yelps, and, after a still pause, a long, drawn-out creak. Finally, silence.

"What the hell was that?" asked Arthur, and Sean shrugged, equally puzzled. The youth led the way around the last corners. At last they came to a T-junction, which split into a hall that ended with a wide set of ascending stairs one way and the dungeon doors the other. Those stood unguarded. "Where are the soldiers?"

"This is very weird," said Sean, but not suspiciously. He genuinely sounded confused. "Someone must have led them away. Remember that strange cry?"

"'Look, a distraction'? Yeah. Who says that, honestly?"

"Apparently, a very smart man." The young guard moved forward and pulled open one of the large wooden doors – peculiarly not locked – but Arthur stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.

"Wait."

Sean tensed under his palm.

"Don't be afraid," said Arthur gently, turning him around. "I...thank you."

Sean smiled warily. "I always repay my debts, your majesty."

Arthur blinked, thinking he had misheard. "I'm sorry?"

The youth's smile got more confident. "You wouldn't remember me, sire, or recognize me, as I was but a small boy when you helped save Ealdor from those raiders seven years ago. You taught my parents how to fight, and they defended me. So by extension, you were my saviour, and I owe you my life."

"But what are you doing_ here?_ In Cen—Morgrim's army?"

Sean looked suddenly grim. "A few years after you saved us, patrols came from Essetir and recruited many of us. king Lot cares little for the outlying villages, as you know, so Cenred got away with it. I was fortunate to avoid the incident with the Cup of Life – I heard that it was chaos."

"Fortunate, indeed." Arthur smiled, and any uneasiness remaining finally left the youth. "I'm very glad I didn't kill you. But your companion—"

Sean waved it away. "Don't worry. He was an asshole." Then he grimaced. "I'm such a coward. Look at me, I've gone and soiled myself. How embarrassing."

"What choice had you? I would have done the same in your position." After all, what was one lie to encourage a youth?

Sean saw right through it. "Bull kelp." They both chuckled softly.

Then Arthur grew sober. "You should leave. If your 'asshole' companion hasn't been found yet, he soon will be, and you'll have some awkward questions to answer...Better yet, come with me. I could use the company."

A sheepish smile spread across Sean's face. "I'm terrified of the dark, and I'm claustrophobic."

Arthur stared at him for several seconds, and then almost released a whoop of laughter that would have echoed throughout the whole castle. He stifled it with a fist. "Then go. You're life's not worth living if you spend the rest of it under the Torturer's grasp."

Sean paled. "I've seen what he does to traitors, and to prisoners. I will go, but not yet." He started to retreat down the corridor. "I owe you my life, sire. You have not seen the last of me." And he was gone.

Arthur was left to descend into the darkness of the prison alone.

At the bottom of the stairs, two guards were unconscious.

* * *

><p><strong>Meh, nothing happened here : You're in luck – two chapters today! :D**

**I love smilies. Don't you love smilies? I love smilies.**

**:)**

**...Yessir...**

"**It's all for nothing if you don't have freedom." ~ William Wallace (Braveheart)**


	7. To Be a King

**So you really don't mind character whump, eh?**

**Hmm...**

* * *

><p>~7~ <span>To Be a King<span>

_What is this?_ Arthur asked inwardly, checking the two soldiers' pulses. They were strong and regular. The attacker didn't try to kill them. Why was that?

Arthur found himself checking every shadow created by the flickering torches. What if he was lying hidden somewhere, ready to smash the king's head in with a club?

_But wait_. The men were untouched. No wounds infected their skulls.

_BOOM!_

Arthur dove forward into a somersault. He rolled behind the guards' chairs and table, where he remained in a crouch. The explosion of sound echoed away down the dungeon, but there was no cave-in, nor any other kind of consequence created by the noise. That didn't make it any less cynical.

Arthur's guard intensified, and he hastened down a corridor at random, passing both regular and pit cells, some empty, some occupied. His gaze was only on the ground, checking every grate for his companions. There was no sign of a battle taking place, nor any crater that indicated where the implosion occurred, so he quickly forgot about the strange sound. Then he heard the warning bells.

Even through the stone ceiling they were audible, and Arthur's throat clenched. Sean wouldn't have betrayed him, would he? He said he owed the king his life...Perhaps Sean's dead partner had finally been found. Yes, that must be it. Or he, Arthur, had been discovered missing from the apothecary. Either way, he was out of time.

He flew down the dungeon, miraculously encountering no one undesirable, hastily checking the ground cells but finding most of them empty.

_Hurry, hurry! Where are they?_

He streamed around a corner and found himself back at the beginning. He chose a different corridor without hesitation and bolted down it, not pausing for rest. The Torturer was waiting for him.

Romulus was hidden in the shadows, so invisible that the king nearly ran past him, but a fiery whip snapped out of the darkness and looped around his ankles. He cried out as he was sent sprawling face-first, his front skidding along damp, rough cobblestone. His bandaged chest screamed at him as the gauze ripped and stitched wounds reopened. The pain brought stars to his eyes, and he just lay there, gasping like a fish, as the Torturer approached and stood above him.

A foot stepped onto his back, and more stars shattered across his vision. He tried to breathe, but Romulus knew where to apply the right amount of pressure to freeze his chest, and the king started to panic.

The demented man held him there for several more seconds, chuckling at Arthur's suffering, and then released him. The king sucked in air before attempting to grab the sorcerer's leg and pull him to the ground. He was too slow or too obvious, and Romulus stepped out of reach. Arthur tried to lunge up at him, but with a unintelligible mutter and a contemptuous wave of his hand, the sorcerer pinned him against a wall with an unseen force just as he got to his feet. Arthur snarled and tried to break free, only for the Torturer to casually flicked a finger and summon an invisible blade, which split his cheek deeply. As he tasted blood, he fell still, but glowered into the dark cowl. He recognized the claw-tipped gauntlets on Romulus's hands.

"Release me and fight me fairly!" he snapped.

The Torturer chuckled darkly. "Fighting fairly is _so_ overrated. And I would win, because I can use magic, something I've been training to do for decades. So, _fairly_, I'm allowed to use it even if you can't." His voice was wispy, almost hissing.

Arthur spat blood. "Rot in Hell you—"

"Language, language!" scolded Romulus mockingly. "Wow, quite the tongue for a _boy_. And we haven't even formally met yet – that you can remember, anyway. I daresay you've become more acquainted with my little friends than with myself, and, frankly, that makes me...rather jealous."

Greasy raven hair hung lifelessly out from one side of the cowl, as though all of it was only on one half of his head. From the light of a single torch, the bottom of the man's face was visible under the hood, and his mouth was grotesque. There were jagged, mutated scars dragging the man's lips into a permanent grin. The teeth looked to be filed to points. Either that, or he really was a daemon.

The Torturer snickered eagerly. "Ready to play?"

Arthur swallowed.

۞ Ӂ ۞

One moment, he was staring into the face of evil. The next, he was facing an old stone ceiling, from which hung black, rusted chains. He was strapped to a table in a room stinking of the metallic odour of old blood and fear. His skull throbbed. Suddenly, a light flashed into his eyes, and he grunted, squinting and turning his head away.

Then he cried out as the Torturer's clawed gauntlet sliced at his upturned forearm, now devoid of bandages.

"Where is the boy?" Romulus demanded in his ear, and Arthur jumped.

"Who?" He howled as the talons dragged deeper into his flesh, all the way up his arm this time, and then snapped his mouth shut as his torn cheek pulled agonizingly.

"I know he's working with you, looking for you. Tell me his name."

Arthur groaned, and spat into the sorcerer's hood. The man didn't even flinch. He just sighed and moved out of the king's line of sight. Hearing the clink of what he presumed were tools of interrogation, Arthur pulled against the leather straps holding him down by his chest, wrists, waist, and legs. He struggled to look around, straining his neck, and he squinted at the dim shapes just out of the light's reach. They hung haphazardly from chains, gently swinging to and fro, the black links clinking lightly as they touched. As Arthur penetrated the darkness, he began to make out the shapes, and thought that they almost looked like human limbs...

He felt the rat before he saw it as it crawled over his belly, and he squirmed to dislodge the creature in disgust.

"_Ugh_, rats." Romulus came back into sight and snatched up the rodent, swift as a viper, before inspecting it curiously. It squealed and squirmed in his grasp, gnawing his fingers in feral terror. He shrugged, bit a chunk out of its side and then tossed the squeaking remains away. "Too sour," he said, licking his split lips.

Arthur paled, but whatever he felt before then was nothing compared to how he felt after seeing the tool in the Torturer's grasp. It reminded him of a teardrop, or maybe a pear fruit. There was a screw-like handle at the end where the pear's stem would be, and he knew that the bulbous end, the bottom of the pear, split into four leaves when the screw was twisted. That end was shoved into the victim's mouth, and the handle was turned at the torturer's leisure, which normally wasn't very fast. The four segments would slowly start to force the jaws of the victim apart from the inside out—

It was called the Pear of Anguish – which, when said aloud, didn't sound all that intimidating. But what's in a name?

"I like to save this beauty for the liars," said Romulus, upholding the Pear of Anguish and gazing at it lovingly. Then he looked down at Arthur, the eternal grin spreading wider even without the aid of the scars. "But you're not a liar, are you?" He turned and placed the tool back on a table, out of the king's view. He returned with something that resembled shears, but with short, thumb-length blades instead of long ones. It was the Tongue Tearer.

"Whoops. Didn't mean to grab this. This is for the _blasphemers_." He chortled as though something was funny, and replaced it in the darkness. "Ah, _here_ we are."

If he had to choose, Arthur would have chosen the Tongue Tearer over what the sadist brought next.

"I love this one. She has yet to let me down," said Romulus, gently cradling what was known as the Knee Splitter. "I don't use her for anyone special, just on whomever I damn well please."

Arthur was a king. Since birth, he had been trained hard by the toughest, strongest men in the realm, not only to fight, but to hold a calm composure even in the face of inevitable, excruciating death. The Torturer seemed to find this amusing, and he sneered at the lack of fear visible in Arthur's features.

"Think you're tough, do you?" he said, lovingly brushing a finger along the Knee Splitter. "Rock solid from years of discipline et cetera et cetera?" He chuckled. "My good man, I have toppled knights, lords, barons, kings all greater than you. Like a block of mud hardened in the sun, all it takes is a little water and professional hands to mould you to do my every whim." As though suddenly agitated, the Torturer dropped the Splitter and leaned close into Arthur's face, holding a scalpel-like blade just before the king's eye. Arthur could see his own iris's reflection in the cold metal, and the fear flickering within.

"Where is the boy?"

_What boy does he keep asking about?_

"What is his name?"

_Sean?_

"Tell me, your _majesty!"_

For a moment he thought he'd lost his eye. Pain exploded around the left side of his face, and his vision splashed red. But it was only a cut. He could still see. A small mercy – or was it?

"You may not fear pain, 'sire,' but you _will_ fear _me!_"

Arthur screamed in the darkness as the Torturer began in earnest.

"Where...is...the _boy?_"

۞ Ӂ ۞

_Sean. Did I say anything about Sean? Where is he? Where am I? Am I dead? I wish I was, and I think I am...No, if I was dead, I wouldn't be hurting still. Or maybe I _am_ dead and this is how death feels. Is this Hell? Is this what I shall face for eternity? Pain, darkness, that malicious chuckle in the shadows?_

_Did I say anything about Sean?_

It took more effort to open his swollen eyes than it would to push a boulder up a mountain. Sucking in breath was like swallowing shards of glass. Twitching a muscle was a razor blade deep in the flesh. He was on the very brink of his sanity, he knew, and the pain was joyfully nudging him over the wrong side.

Something moved nearby.

"Father?" he croaked, and blinked. No. Uther was a year dead. That blurred form wasn't Uther. It was—"Merlin?" No. He was dead, too. Unless he, Arthur, was dead himself, that figure was neither his father nor his servant. The shape moved in and out of his line of sight, passing before the light that was but a smear of brightness.

He had seen this all before, he realized. The rush of memories was almost painful as they swarmed his mind's eye, and he recalled everything from his first encounter with the Torturer's 'playmates.' They were only slightly less horrific than the second round's. The first time, he suddenly remembered, wasn't an interrogation at all. There were no questions. The Torturer was just having fun.

The smudged form moved closer.

"P-please," Arthur groaned piteously. "No more."

There was a clink of buckles and squeak of leather as the table straps were undone from binding him, and then strong hands scooped him up from beneath his knees and shoulders. He was carried swiftly away by someone clearly not Romulus, and eventually placed down, gently, on the floor of a small cell, where he was abandoned.

"Kill me," he said, as the blurred form closed and locked the cell door.

He felt mutilated. His right leg wouldn't work properly, and his hands couldn't clench. One shoulder was swollen, in agony, possibly dislocated. There were loose pieces of flesh in his mouth, bloodied and sour tasting. He could feel them with his leaden tongue. He was crusty from dried blood and puss, and when he breathed, scabbed wounds reopened, seeping fresh fluids. Some were crudely sewn shut, as to prevent him from bleeding to death, while others were left as is; not fatal, only painful. Those injuries were too numerous, too various and too horrifyingly barbaric to envision.

Something seemed wrong about his left hand, and not only because he couldn't ball it into a fist. He groggily lifted it, he felt uneasy when he found that it had roughly been bound with a bloody rag. The material was loose, and he used his teeth to pull it off. Nausea rose when he saw that his two last fingers were gone, the holes halfheartedly cauterized shut. The flesh around his middle digit was sliced open, as though the performer had contemplated amputation but had been interrupted.

Gone. His fingers were..._gone!_

He tried to turn on his side to vomit, but his dislocated shoulder refused to cooperate, and he was sick on himself; there wasn't much in his stomach anyway. He was too weak to pop his shoulder back into place, and the position was too awkward. He tried, yet gave up the feeble attempt quickly and just stared at the ceiling. There was a grill up there, a grill that led outside, its sole purpose being to let in air.

Sunlight was peeking in through that grill. It was beautiful. Arthur wanted to go to it, but he couldn't move, and suddenly, the sunlight became a mockery. _I'm out here, free_, it seemed to say. _Come get me!_

Arthur wasn't sure whether to be ashamed or not as tears seeped from the corners of his eyes, and he sobbed. He hated the sound of his own weeping echoing around the cell, alone, mournful, and so he hated himself.

_Weak_, he sneered inwardly. _Weak, useless, nothing but a bitter, scornful disappointment. A lesser son of grander sires. A nobody._

He had failed Camelot. He had failed his kingship, his realm, his people. He had failed himself. It was over.

_I shall die here_, thought he, but the idea did not frighten him. In fact, he welcomed such a fate. He was tired of it, tired of everything: the ruling, the fighting, the struggling to prove his worth to his subjects. He'd banished the one woman he had ever truly loved. He'd lost his father to an assassin who had meant to kill him as a prince. He'd watched as his best friend was slaughtered before his very eyes. He was done.

"Done," he whispered to himself, closing his eyes.

_Now there! That's no way for a king to think!_ snapped a new inner voice. _Shame on you!_

Arthur cracked his eyes open.

_Selfish, arrogant – just like Merlin said! You really are a prat. Get up!_

It was strangely involuntary when he sucked in a full breath of air, and his weeping features hardened to the face he was renowned for.

_Camelot needs you. Hold fast. Be the king you were born to be. Camelot needs you._

He didn't remember getting up, but he suddenly found himself vertical, leaning heavily on his stronger leg, the one with the knee whole.

_Camelot needs you._

"Camelot needs me," he muttered, and growled impatiently at his agony, making it cower and dampen its control over him. "Camelot needs me."

"I dare say it does."

Arthur nearly fell over again. He turned very slowly, away from the door, and looked up. Through the grate above, he was greeted by a mop of raven hair, a set of laughing sapphire eyes, and a wide, familiar grin that was brighter than the sun that haloed it.

Arthur wavered on his feet, faint. "But...but I saw you die."

"So did I," said Merlin.

* * *

><p><strong>...<strong>

***Cheshire grin fades to darkness***

"**Your men love you. If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough." ~ Prince Edward (A Knight's Tale)**


	8. The Reverie  part 1

**Oh-_kay_, so I _lied_. But it was a white lie, so it's not evil.**

**...**

**Let's just see what Merlin was up to, shall we? :3**

* * *

><p>~8~ <span>The Reverie – part 1<span>

_Finding a horse was easy – it had run not too far and left plenty of tracks. Finding the way to the castle undetected, however, would prove much more difficult._

_Merlin trotted the beast until they couldn't move another pace without being out in the open, beneath the full moon. There, he squinted to make out the guards at the western gate, outlined in torch light. To distract them, he could do a whole manner of things. But that will only get him through the door; what happens once he's inside?_

_A disguise would be good, if he had such a thing. He could make one, but conjuring clothes out of nothing was harder than it sounds, and he highly doubted a headdress of grass and pants of fern leaves would cut it. Now, if he got a _guard's_ uniform..._

_There were sentries on the wall's battlements as well. Merlin took that into consideration as he focused on the nearest guard, who was the size of the last digit of his smallest finger. How could he lure him? A light? No, if the man is superstitious, it would only scare him and prevent him from ever coming into the trees. A sound? A cry? It would have to be loud enough to be heard, but not too loud or else it would _sound_ like a distraction._

_Merlin sighed, biting his lip. His mind wandered, and gruesome memories returned to taunt him once more. Witnessing himself being speared was not a pleasant experience, but it _was_ pleasing to see the fury that exploded from Arthur after he 'died.' _

So he _does_ care_, Merlin had thought, snickering quietly to himself, then he'd grimaced as the king was hit on the head and knocked senseless._

_Merlin had waited in the trees, his initial plan of Operation Liberate Comrades disintegrated with the wind, as the waggon cages were drawn away by spiritless horses, taking his companions and the majority of the Camelot steeds away. He'd stayed there for several more minutes, and, sure enough, a scout trotted past, glancing for any stragglers to enslave. Merlin contemplated on killing him, but didn't want to risk drawing attention to a sudden missing man, and therefore to himself. He had waited until the scout was gone, then emerged from hiding and sought out the runaway horse._

_He'd watched as his own 'corpse' melted into the ground like smoke. The spear remained upright in the road, a lonely sign of the ambush. There were no other tracks to follow, no ropes or nets left – Severus the Savage had made sure of that. With a few words and a casual flick of his hand, the grooves of waggon wheels and dents of hooves and boots had faded behind the slaver caravan._

_Now he snatched himself back to the present, exiling the image of his illusion-twin from his mind. Severus was a powerful sorcerer: the spectre had been very convincing. And Merlin knew that before the next sunset, he was going to have to face him._

_The guard hadn't moved since Merlin wandered into his reverie, and only reached up to scratch his nose as the warlock returned from memory lane. The other one was leaning heavily against his halberd, bored._

_Eventually, overwhelmed by restlessness, Merlin nudged his horse into the moonlight, into full view, with what he couldn't say was a plan, exactly, but something along the lines of one. Sort of._

_The guards noticed him immediately, but waited until they were certain that he wasn't one of them. _

"_Halt!" the closest one ordered, stepping forward and raising a hand. "Friend or foe?"_

"_That's a stupid question," said Merlin, coating his tone with scorn. "To some I am a friend, and to some, a foe. But I know those some. I don't know you, and therefore, I don't know if I'm your friend or your foe."_

_The guards glanced at each other, sceptical. Merlin pressed his attack of wits._

"_Please let me through." _

_They held their positions._

"_Now we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Or the medium way. Or the minutely-easy-semi-difficult way. Or the mostly-hard-medium-with-partly-difficult-easy way."_

_Merlin wished he could capture the guards' expressions in his memory forever. He could almost _see_ the smoke steaming from their ears. Perhaps they should rest those overly exhausted brains of theirs. _

"Dörmĭo_," he whispered, and gold irises flashed in the night. The two guards slumped lifelessly to the ground. Merlin could already hear their rumbling snores._

_They were big men, bigger than he had anticipated. Their armour would be too large to try on for a disguise, and so he didn't even try. Instead, he set them so it appeared as though they had fallen asleep on the job, to deter others from sending off the alarm._

_He knew that he was going to have to think of an explanation about how he got through the gate other than magic as he whispered to the door locks and they opened with soft clicks. He couldn't exactly tell Arthur the full hundred percent truth about how he got in, now could he? But he'll worry about that later. He just concentrated on slipping inside the city walls without being detected. _

_Thanks to the results of construction, there were plenty of places to hide from the moon and scrutinizing gaze of the sentries. Merlin, having left the horse behind, slipped in and out of made and half-made buildings, under lonely archways, through forests of scaffolding and beams, as invisible as a mouse. It wasn't until he felt like he was in the middle of the city, when buildings became whole and voices were heard inside, that he realized that he didn't know where he was going. He recalled from spying up on the knoll earlier that evening that there were two patches of finished buildings – one along the mountains and one to the south, closest to the knoll – the castle to the north-eastern side, and the rest, which was still under construction. Where was he now? _Most likely the completed southern quarter_, he figured._

_A favourable destination would be where they would keep prisoners, but where was that? A dungeon completed under the rising castle? A large cage open to the elements? _Small_ cages open to the elements?_

_Merlin felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, just before the single word._

Emrys_._

_He ducked into an alley between two houses, then glanced up and down the street._

Emrys_._

"_Who's there?" His hushed words received no verbal reply._

Emrys_._

_The voice, both a cry and a whisper, echoed, not in his ears, but in his mind. It was faintly familiar. Merlin tried reaching out to it, but too late. The speaker was gone._

_He was puzzled. No one but the Druids new his _vërum nσmί_, his true name, of Emrys. The sight of a couple cheerful, wealthy chaps wandering past forced the thoughts from his mind, and he focused on the present. He tried making for the building grounds again, but got lost in the cobblestone labyrinth._

_Merlin risked detection as he climbed up to a balcony of a silent house, up to the gutters and finally to the roof's peak. Balancing against the smokeless chimney, he scanned in every direction. The new castle of Essetir dominated the whole eastern view. It was massive, bigger than Camelot's citadel, and clearly growing. Half of the city looked finished from there on the roof, the majority of it mansions for nobles and those of upper class. Even in the dead moon's rays, labouring slaves on night shift could be seen and heard swarming over the walls of both the castle and the city, constantly working. Merlin had difficulty closing his heart to them, and in fact never succeeded, as he tried to focus solely on his companions. It was impossible to shut out the wails of the tortured, the staccato snaps of the fiendish whips. An ache spread in his chest as he thought of his mother, somewhere out there, still alive? Mutilated? Dead?_

_He had to find her. If he found her, then she could tell him where prisoners were kept, for even when enslaved, people who know things cannot keep silent for long. Word always gets out._

_If she was within a mile of him, he would be able to find her with a tracking spell that he'd discovered a few years ago, which had helped him in the past with locating imprisoned companions. He gave it a shot._

_Climbing down from the house, he closed his eyes, whispering, "_Ṃonștrarę mihĭ mảter mĕa."

_He waited anxiously, expectantly, and nearly whooped with joy when he felt a familiar throb pulse through him. A few seconds later, he felt it again, and as he started travelling in the right direction, the throb quickened slightly. It took all his will to not charge down the street to unite with his mother._

_The necessity to keep a low profile slowed Merlin down, and there was a green tinge to the eastern horizon by the time he arrived at his destination, a construction site, where he extinguished the tracking spell. He stood before a dozen long shacks made of logs and straw that reeked of unwashed bodies and raw terror. His eyes watered from the pungent smell. He entered the hut that contained his mother, wearily glancing for guards beforehand, and stood in complete darkness. _

"_Hunith?" he whispered as loud as he dared. "Hunith of Ealdor?"_

_The only reply was the moans and sobs of the poor souls within. Dare he risk a light? A conjured orb of luminance would scare most of them, enough to create an unwelcome ruckus. But what choice did he have? He couldn't just wander in and hope he didn't step on anyone. As his vision adjusted to the darkness, he could see them as they pushed for room but cuddled for warmth, fought for blankets or hugged for comfort. He didn't need an afternoon sun to tell that they were all skinnier than saplings, and suffering. He still couldn't see his mother though. Did he wait till dawn then? But what if the guards made their rounds before then, and he was caught?_

"_Hunith!" he hissed. "Hunith of Ealdor!"_

"_What do you want?" a young girl asked, and she was shushed by an adult._

"_Go away," a man growled, and others silenced him._

"_Shut it."_

"You_ shut it!"_

"_Hunith!" Merlin said again._

"_What do you want, boy? Beat it before you bring the whip down on all of us!"_

"_Wait!" There were several disgruntled, but soft, exclamations as a figure stood and approached the door. With the moonlight behind him, Merlin knew the figure would only be able to see his silhouette. "Wait. Merlin?"_

"_Mom?"_

"_Merlin!" Hunith sobbed as she rushed through the pack of bodies and threw her arms around her son's neck. Merlin embraced her tightly, eyes wet, relief flooding his heart. And then he felt the dried blood on her back._

_With a gasp, he released her and saw the pain glinting in her eyes from the light of the moon. She shook her heard. "It's nothing, son."_

_But Merlin wouldn't hear of it. His anger crushed every other emotion to dust, and he nearly bolted away to kill every slave driver he came across in a raging rampage. Hunith held him again, whispering in his ear._

"_It's _nothing_, Merlin. Don't worry about me...How did you find me?" The look Merlin gave her was all she needed. "Ah. But what are you _doing_ here?" Now it was her turn to be furious."You shouldn't have come. Go, now!"_

"_No," said Merlin, deathly calm. "I'm not leaving, not without you, not without Arthur."_

"_Arthur? King Arthur is here?"_

_Excited and confused whispers ran throughout the shack._

"_King Arthur?"_

"_Lord Pendragon? Here, in Essetir?"_

"_Why?"_

"_Has he come to save us?"_

"_Hail, King Arthur!"_

_Merlin hastily shushed them all urgently with hand gestures, and they eventually obliged, diminishing to a few elated twitters._

"_He is here, but he's in danger. Severus and his men have captured him and the knights." Groans of despair were extinguished by another wave of Merlin's hand. "That's another reason why I have come here. Do any of you know where—"_

"_Oi! Be quiet in there!"_

"_Merlin, hide!" Hunith dragged the warlock deeper into the shack, and the other slaves willingly parted to let them through just as a guard arrived at the entrance._

"_Shuttup or I'll come in there an' I'll—" The guard's words were overridden by the refreshed wails of the slaves. With a sneer, the sentry spat and continued on._

_Merlin stayed hidden, as he could not reveal himself anymore: the guard decided to return to his duties patrolling the shack entrances as the sun rose to kiss the sky._

"_It's astonishing you managed to get here at all through the city," Hunith whispered. "Patrols have increased tenfold ever since the dragon started to become a real issue."_

_Merlin reacted. "Dragon?"_

"_Yes. A white dragon. It isn't very big, and it doesn't hurt anyone – well, anyone innocent. Occasionally, it will kill a slaver, given the chance."_

Aithusa_, Merlin thought, relishing the rise of hope that blossomed in his chest. The voice! The voice that had spoken to him in the southern quarter. Could it have been Aithusa calling him by his _vërum nσmί_? "Does it attack often?"_

"_Every other night for the passed several months. It seems to show up when something particularly horrible is going to happen..." She trailed off as the guard wandered by the entrance. "I can tell you where they're kept," Hunith suddenly breathed, "the prisoners. At least, I can tell you the rumours. Anyone taken is never seen again, except if they're made examples of..." She shuddered, and Merlin rubbed her shoulder gently, consciously avoiding touching her back._

"_There won't be any more 'examples,' not while I'm here," he said, and though they both knew how weak that sounded, it was reassuring nonetheless. "Where are they?"_

"_I can tell you, or show you, but not until tonight. There are simply too many slavers. There's no chance we'd make it there unseen."_

"_But it may be too late by then!" Merlin hissed impatiently, then paused as the guard passed by the door again and moved on. "What if Arthur's hurt by then, or killed?"_

"_Merlin," said Hunith, holding her son's face in her hands, "promise me you'll stay hidden until dusk. Promise me."_

_The warlock pulled away, shaking his head. "I can't do that."_

"_Merlin—"_

"_Alllllll-right! Everyone up!"_

"_Our shift's started," said Hunith, shaking. "Just stay here, all right? There is a cubby here that we built to give a person a day's rest. It's just a hole in the ground with a wooden trapdoor, but—"_

"_Mom, you can't possibly think I would take that away from someone! I—"_

"_Boy, you can take it." Merlin turned at the sound of the gruff voice, and saw a hardened middle-aged man lifting a trapdoor a few paces away. "This was my day to rest. But I want you to have it. Hide."_

_Merlin shook his head. "Thank you, but I can't do that to you."_

_The man was unmoved. "Son, if there was a slim chance that you could liberate that king of yours and help him save us, I would be willing to work nonstop forever to get that chance. Get in here."_

_It was dreary in there, dark, and lonely. He felt his chest constrict and his breathing quicken as the trapdoor was lowered over him and dirt was brushed over top to hide the wood. There was enough room for him to mostly stand, with his shoulders brushing the door, and it was long enough to lie down straight. The dirt walls had scratches, indicating the hard work desperate slaves suffered through in order to make a safe haven for one of them every day. Some marks were from tools, others from fingernails._

_Merlin took several deep breaths, calming his clenched chest, and settled down to wait._

ȣ ȣ ȣ

_He had to use magic to plug his ears and muffle the sounds of the horror above ground. For hours he hid there, mostly sleeping, but occasionally restlessly pacing the few steps he could or drawing little pictures into the dirt wall with his nails, all the while trying to ignore the grovelling hunger in his belly. He'd just finished sketching a small dragon when he heard footsteps overhead. Fearing discovery, he held his breath, extinguished his little orb of conjured light, and stared up at the trapdoor._

"_Did you hear? King Arthur himself attacked Morgrim!"_

"_Wot? Yer full of frogstools!"_

"_No, really! That bloke Geoff told a guy who's a buddy of my matey. That servant's never wrong. He said that Arthur was talkin' with Morggy and suddenly Arthur grabbed up a butter knife and very nearly killed Morggy with it! Just lunged at 'im! He almost got 'im but then the sorcerers stepped in and stopped 'im. Shame that. Then the king was taken away by the Torturer."_

"_Damn! If he'd killed ol' Morggy, we'd be free, wouldn't we?"_

"_Aye. Hate to be in Art's boots right now. They say you can hear his screams from the northern wing."_

Wham!

_Merlin ignored the stars that sprang before his eyes and the pain exploding over his head as he threw himself against the trapdoor again, this time on purpose. The two gossiping slaves squeaked and fled the shack, howling, "The things that go bump 'n the night now bump 'n the late evenin'! Run fer yer lives!"_

_Like an animal Merlin struggled to escape, his urgency making him clumsy. Eventually, he composed himself enough to calmly lever the door open and pull himself from the hole. He nearly left right then and there, but he forced himself to take the split second to close the door and cover it with dirt. Magic was very handy that way._

_He was risking much as he dodged out of the hut and into the evening sun, but the fury and disgust that blossomed from hearing about his friend's torture made him rash. He weaved in and out between people and construction, always heading east._

"Ṃonștrarę mihĭ șociis ąrdĕnt._"_

_One would think he should have used the tracking spell to find his companions right off the bat. But what good would it be if he couldn't tell if they were above or below ground? Chances are, wherever they're kept, it wouldn't be a simple stroll down a corridor, make a right at the statue and it's the first door on the left. No, if they're in a dungeon, it'll probably be a labyrinth to get there, and the another labyrinth in the actual prison. It didn't matter; he was too far away, judging by the lack of the familiar throbbing._

Northern wing_, he thought. _He said screams in the northern wing. I hope I won't hear them.

Or do I?

_Arthur may already be dead. A person called the Torturer was definitely someone to be reckoned with. A dead man tells no tales, or screams any._

_He slipped behind a stack of bricks and once more listened, or rather felt, for the signature throb of the tracking spell functioning, but was surprised to feel nothing. Actual, dreaded nothing._

_The longer he remained still, the stronger he sensed it. His magic was being suffocated. It squirmed in his chest like a living thing, coiling and roiling in distress. When he tried to reach for it, it cowered from his touch, faded, and vanished. He was alone, and helpless._

_His heart froze, and his fists clenched. He'd felt this sensation before, not two years ago. And he loathed to feel it again._

_Dorocha._

_But...it was impossible! The Dorocha are gone, defeated. Sir Lancelot _sacrificed_ himself to defeat them. They can't be here! _

Think about it.

_Merlin calmed himself. It was just a spell, that's all. An invisible, undetectable shielding spell around the citadel. Must be the work of Severus, the slave master. _

_He stood, glancing around for guards before proceeding to the castle. _All I have to do is_—_

_His ears popped peculiarly, and he cocked his head as he took the few steps through the invisible barrier. He opened and closed his jaw, stuck a finger into one ear, and then he was through. Like a drowning man sucking in air, his magic whooshed back into existence within his chest, and Merlin sagged with relief. Then he rushed for cover._

_It was there, crouching behind a low stone fence of the last house on the road, that he finally took stock of the size and complexity of the castle. It loomed high above him, not in a dark manner but of one that demanded, and assumed, total obedience. There were towers and turrets, bridges and battlements, a keep, watchtowers and a grand hall. To the left, a stone bridge connected the north-most turret to the mountain, a likely escape route for the inhabitants of the fortress. Merlin memorized its location. Judging by the position of the barbican, a building with its own portcullis that doubles the castle front gate's defence, the main entrance was to the south. Half a mile spanned between the outer wall and the barbican. It would be difficult to flee that way, but may be the _only_ way._

_If the castle wasn't built with the blood and sweat of innocents, it may have been wondrous to behold._

_A side entrance was before him. It gaped like a colossal maw, the raised portcullis being the teeth. The small drawbridge was down, spanning across either a pike-filled ditch or a moat – Merlin couldn't tell which – that was guarded by two men on the ground, and a few more on the above battlements. Merlin frowned. There was no way he was going to get in without answering some rather awkward questions._

_He retreated to think. Lo and behold should a well-dressed man trot his horse up the road. It didn't take much thought to form a plan._

_The courier was senseless and lying in an alleyway when Merlin commandeered the horse, dressed in the pompous, and ridiculously frilly, clothes of a messenger. The message was in a front pocket, but was of nothing of importance. Just a dinner acceptance._

_Merlin slowed the horse near the drawbridge, where a stable hand appeared out of nowhere to take the beast. Heart thudding, the warlock stepped up to the guards, who narrowed their eyes suspiciously._

"_Password," one said monotonously._

"_P-password?" _Fool!_ Merlin snapped inwardly. He felt magic swell within by the time the guard chuckled, smiling humorously._

"_I'm just kidding, Jimmy. Go on in."_

"_Thank you, sir." The servant hastened across the drawbridge, just hearing, "Damn your eyes, man! That wasn't Jimmy! It was some new guy. Jimmy's got _brown_ hair."_

"_All looks dark t' me."_

_Merlin released the breath stuck in his chest. He entered the citadel—_

—_and promptly got lost._

* * *

><p><strong>Good <em>grief<em>, Merlin.**

**I actually thought I wasn't very convincing, because it didn't seem right that Merlin should die in such a way, especially at the beginning of the story. And because I'm the writer, it seems astronomically obvious that he was alive the whole time...Others must know what I'm talking about, right? **

**You see why now that I didn't warn about a character death, yes? Because technically, it _wasn't_ ;D**

**Rough Latin translations:  
><strong>**Dormio: sleep  
><strong>**Monstrare mihi sociis ardent: show me my comrades  
><strong>**Monstrare mihi mater mea: show me my mother**

"**The only rules that really matter are these: what a man _can_ do, and what a man _can't_ do." ~ Jack Sparrow (Pirates of the Caribbean)**


	9. The Reverie part 2

**Prepare yourself for a _big_ chapter.**

**Very big. _Huge_. Don't know why I didn't split it...Better get yourself some popcorn or something... ;)**

**Thanks to all those who reviewed! They made me happy! :D**

* * *

><p>~9~ <span>The Reverie – part 2<span>

_There were guards everywhere, all changing shifts. Merlin hid in a broom cupboard as the troops marched past, some eagerly, ready for rest, others sluggishly, preparing for the night rounds. The less he was seen, the better._

_When movement finally subsided to complete silence, Merlin peeked from behind the small door and saw that night had fallen through the window across the hall. He cautiously emerged from the cupboard, and was bombarded by the many brooms and buckets that toppled out after him. He might as well have released a herd of wild wildebeests, all the while blaring a war horn and throwing pots and pans for all the racket he made. No bucket was excused from being stuck on his foot and rattled around, nor any brooms omitted from waltzing gracelessly with him._

_In the end, Merlin lay sprawled amid the tangle of sweepers and pails, dazed. He could hear Arthur's voice in his head: "_Only you, Merlin_," he said as he rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "_Idiot_."_

_A moment later, the chaos of the broom cupboard contents was abandoned and the servant was picking corridors that he thought went north, sticking to the shadows, wary of guards. An hour of slinking about was devoured before he passed a dining hall side door, and smells of dinner sent his stomach begging on hind legs. He peeked inside and saw a host of plushly-dressed noblemen and women sitting around a scrumptious feast. He curbed his hunger impatiently and departed the area, only to stumble upon the kitchen – quite literally, for, in his haste to avoid a patrolling pair of guards, he stepped down where the ground had turned into stairs and fell. Tumbling down the steps, he burst through the door at the bottom and rolled into a stack of crates. A bowl of ripe berries fell and spattered over his chest. Again, it was not a silent occurrence._

"_Only me," he said to himself, as the kitchen hands all turned to stare at him._

_He stood sheepishly, casually dusting himself off, though it was fruitless. The courier disguise was compromised. "Smells good," he commented. "You couldn't perhaps spare a loaf of bread, could you?"_

_Perhaps it was the way he smiled, or because it was a legitimate excuse to laugh when he fell, that they willingly obliged, and they even gave him a piece of cheese to have with it._

_His hunger sated at last, Merlin coolly asked as to where the dungeons may be. Equally cool, a kitchen maid enquired why he would wished to know, blushing all the while. Smiling, the warlock said he planned on breaking his friends out before they were tortured, hanged, or worse. The maid's cheeks dimpled prettily, and though Merlin wasn't sure if she believed him, she said she would give him directions to the two separate dungeons, for a price._

_Merlin was not reluctant to give the maid the kiss on the cheek, and almost regretted having to leave immediately after she told him the way. _

_Mentally running through the directions, Merlin quickly came to the noble horseman statue at the junction of four hallways. He took the one pointed at by the horseman's lowered lance (thinking about how painful it would be if a person was to walk into the spear's point), just as the instructions said. After descending a very wide set of steps, he found the first of the two dungeons, which was guarded by a pair of men._

_Stiff backed, Merlin dodged into an alcove, behind a marble statue. From there, he could hear the two guards talking. They had been looking at each other, and so did not see the warlock, fortunately for him._

_Having removed the spoiled garments of the courier and was now just looking like a servant who had rolled in the dirt, he stuck out like a black eye once more. Even so, he wouldn't have been able to pass freely with messenger clothes any more than a dancing trickster; what business would a courier have in the dungeons?_

_Restless, Merlin struggled to think of a diversion, but urgency scrambled his thoughts. Spontaneously, he jumped from the alcove, pointed down another hallway and bellowed the first thing that came to mind._

"Look! A distraction!_"_

_The bewildered expressions of the two guards flashed for a split second before they changed into what Merlin thought could be excitement. Clearly, these two never see much action or get the excuse to hit someone with their halberds. _

"_Oi! Halt!" They stepped forward, and Merlin turned to flee. Sensing the chase, the guards followed eagerly, weapons at the ready, armoured boots slapping against the stone floor._

_Merlin pretended to trip on the ascending stairs. As he fell, he heard the soldiers approach. He rolled onto his back and turned a palm towards each of the men. They stopped with startled grunts as an invisible force enveloped them, and then Merlin clapped his hands together. The guards cried out as they were smashed into each other, and as the warlock threw his arms away, the men flew through the air, senseless as they slid to a stop._

_Merlin moved the guards with magic into his former hiding place, behind the statue, and then made for the dungeon door. It was locked, but that was little harry for a warlock. He whispered to the keyhole and it willingly clicked open. With a glance over his shoulder, he pulled the door open with a long, drawn-out creak, and descended into the dungeon, shutting it behind him._

_The pair of guards at the foot of the stairs were no more fortunate than their companions, other than they didn't get smashed into each other to become unconscious. Merlin stole their ring of keys and stepped lightly over their motionless, unharmed forms, before looking down each passageway, any of which could hold the king and his men. One was unlit, so he ruled out that one, but he didn't fancy the one in three odds he'd pick the correct hall from the rest. _

Fine. We'll try _this_ again_, he thought, and said, "_Ṃonștrarę mihĭ șociis ąrdĕnt._"_

_Now it was his turn to be thrown through the air. The magic backfired with the force mightier than dragon's wing beat, and the warlock was picked up and tossed into the wall. His head and upper back hit first._

_His eyes went cross for a moment as he slid to the ground, and he fought to retain consciousness. He pushed himself away from the wall, rubbing the back of his skull. "Ow."_

_Wait, was that a chuckle?_

_Merlin froze, glancing around only with his eyes. The gleeful snickering stopped, and the servant thought he'd imagined it all. Just a reaction from slamming into stone bricks._

_So there are magical barriers in here as well. How..._convenient_._

_He stood slowly, cautiously, wary of stalkers. Then he chose a random corridor and followed it._

Emrys_._

_Merlin stumbled, and immediately reached out with his mind inquiringly._

Aithusa?

Emrys_._

Yes, that is my name. Where are you?

Far.

_It had been a while since Merlin had last spoken to Kilgharrah, the Great – and once last – Dragon. He had forgotten how frustrating it could be to speak to the noble creatures._

Emrys_._

_Aithusa was still very young, especially by dragon standards. Merlin had rescued her egg from a treasure seeker of dark intentions, and, in giving her a name, gave her life. Her name meant, in the dragon tongue, the light of the sun. She was supposed to be a symbol of hope, a sign that a new dawn was about to break free over Albion. So far, there hadn't been much change._

_But he had never spoken to Kilgharrah like this before, with this mind touch, at least not when there was such a large distance between them. Perhaps because he had been Aithusa's name-giver?_

Aithusa, are you still there?

_Silence._

_The bond had been weak anyway. Maybe it would grow stronger as Aithusa matured and if she approached. As a Dragonlord, the last Dragonlord, Merlin had the power to summon her, as he had Kilgharrah on many an occasion, and in doing so, she could travel a thousand miles in less than a heartbeat. But he didn't want to endanger her. A mature dragon could withstand an army of soldiers, but not she, not now. He put the thought aside._

_As he further explored the dark halls, his heart ached at the sound of prisoners. They reached out between bars, from regular and pit cells, grasping, begging for aid. Merlin desperately wanted to help them, but knew that the best way to do that was to rescue his friends, and take down the monster who'd started it all._

"_Lovely, aren't they?"_

_Merlin tripped over a pit cell grate at the chortling, lispy voice, but managed to keep his balance and turn towards the speaker. From the shadows of an unlit passageway, a cloaked man stepped forward, face in darkness beneath a black cowl._

"_They're my best friends," said the man in a hissing, demented dialect. "My favourite toys. I get mad if anyone tries to steal them."_

_Perhaps it was his tone, or the way he walked towards the warlock, or the malicious air radiating off of him that made Merlin shiver in fear and step back. The cowled man snickered._

"_Forgive me," he said, holding out a hand, which was wearing a gauntlet tipped with sharp talons, and he gave a mocking bow. "I am Romulus, though most know me as the Torturer. A simple title for such a complex art, but still, you can't blame the ungifted."_

_Merlin felt his hands heat as fire sparked between his fingertips._

"_I wouldn't do that if I were you," said the Torturer, and made a whip-lash motion with his arm. A long rope of black tendrils snapped through the air. Merlin tried to dodge out of the way, but it whipped around his wrist, burning like hot iron. Romulus yanked on the rope, pulling Merlin towards him. The servant yelped as the metal talons covering the Torturer's hands lunged out and dug into his shoulder. _

_His eyes flashed like gold coins as he instinctively punched the man's chest, over his heart. A cackle of lightning spawned from his clenched fist and electrocuted Romulus. _

_With a furious howl, the Torturer cringed, but he was unable to release Merlin. As the stream of electricity stopped, Romulus recovered swiftly. He dropped the whip and grabbed the warlock by the throat. Beads of blood bloomed from under the gauntlet of claws, trickling down Merlin's neck as the Torturer forced him against the wall and proceed to throttle him._

"_Little fool! You'll die for that!"_

_Merlin choked, squirming to free himself, and in his desperation the rogue magic he was born with took the reins. _

BOOM!

_He wished he could have seen the terrified astonishment on Romulus's face when he was blasted away from Merlin and thrown helplessly through the air, but the cowl was deep, and he flew back into the dark passageway, making it impossible. He rubbed his sore neck, paling as he felt blood hot on his fingers._

_The magic-induced implosion of air had been very loud. It might have drawn unwelcome attention, and without a backwards glance, Merlin fled just as the signature clang of warning bells tolled from above ground._

I've been found out!_ he thought, heart clenching. Then he forced himself to relax. Even if they did suspect an intruder, how would they find him before he freed his companions...? Unless the dungeon is the first place they look._

Either way, run.

_He dared not try the tracking spell again; in the narrow halls, he may actually knock himself out, and being senseless with a creature like Romulus prowling about did not sound all that tantalizing. He wished now that he had killed the man while he'd had the chance._

_He stuck with normal, magic-less searching, and, fortunately for him, his planning and consideration paid off. He skidded to a halt as he saw the arm sticking up through the bars of a pit cell, the hand fiddling with the padlock. _

"_Ouch! Hold still, blast you!"_

"_Then stop _wiggling_, you goon! It's bad enough with you sitting on my head—"_

"_I can't do anything with you shifting about like a startled horse...Great, now you've gone and lost me my concentration."_

"_You aren't capable of _having_ a concentration!"_

"_Why you—"_

"_Gwaine!" Merlin dropped to his knees and peeked down between the bars, grinning joyously. Gwaine just saw him, paled, and then disappeared as Leon lost his balance and collapsed under the knight's weight._

"_You great oaf! Just—" Suddenly, Leon saw He Who Was Thought Deceased staring down at him, who looked almost confused with a fading smile. "What? B-but..."_

"_Nice to see you, too, Leon."_

"_But you're dead!" Gwaine exclaimed, lying flat on his back, eyes wide._

_Merlin grimaced. "Well, you guys don't seem all that lively yourselves." His nose involuntarily crunched at the smell wafting from the cell. Gwaine looked sheepish._

"_They wouldn't let us out to pee."_

_Though it took some effort to open the cell door, as he was alone in the task and it was heavy, he managed eventually. The knights were overjoyed, and overwhelmed, with the return of the friend they had thought lost forever._

"_You do have some explaining, of course," said Elyan, supporting the injured solder, Bromly._

_Merlin pocketed the stolen ring of keys. "I will explain, but not now. Where are the others?"_

_It wasn't too difficult to find the remaining five men. They were making a lot of noise, singing an old farmer song off-pitch and with different lyrics among them._

_In moments, Percival and the remaining four soldiers were liberated, and again, Merlin insisted on explaining his sudden living flesh and breathing chest later. He was disheartened that Arthur hadn't been in either cell, but tried to keep optimistic, even saying how convenient it was for their enemies to not separate them from each other, which could have made it harder to find them all._

"_Where did they take him?" demanded Merlin, as the party sought the exit._

"_We don't know," said Elyan, still helping Jack hold up injured Bromly. Though they all knew it, no one said how the man was slowing them down with his wounded leg. As they paused, Merlin tore off a few strips of his shirt and bound the gash tightly, but that was all he could do._

"_They took him away to speak with Lord Whatshisname, Morgrim. We haven't heard from him since," replied Gwaine. He looked grim._

"_He may not have even been returned down here," added Leon. "They could have kept him somewhere else; he is the kingdom's greatest enemy, after all."_

"_Enemy for a crime he did not commit," Merlin growled. Then he perked. "Of course! The kitchen maid said there were _two_ dungeons! He must be in the other one."_

"_What kitchen maid?"_

_Merlin either ignored or was oblivious to the question, and, by chance, he managed to lead them back to the stairs, without encountering Romulus, where they ascended cautiously before peeking out into the hall. The door was unguarded, as the soldiers were obviously still unconscious._

"_Let's go."_

"_Wait!" Elyan stopped them all from proceeding. "And do what, exactly? It would be impossible for us all to go undetected."_

"_True," said Gwaine, frowning. "We might as well go waltzing down the corridors, yodelling and banging Taiko drums for all the attention we'll attract. It would be more fun doing that, though."_

"_What's yodelling?"_

"_Elyan's right," said Merlin, and they all returned to the bottom of the stairs. _

_Leon helped place Bromly into one of the guards' wooden chairs."We need a plan."_

"_Planning is so boring," said Gwaine. "Let's just yodel."_

"_Shut up, Gwaine."_

ȣ ȣ ȣ

_Merlin lifted the slightly-too-big helmet from over his eyes and tightened the straps of his arm braces. The senseless guard wasn't going to need them anytime soon, and neither would his companion, so Elyan took his armour as well._

"_I still don't see why _I_ have to be the prisoner," Gwaine grumbled._

"_Because the armour fits Merlin and I best—"_

"_And I couldn't swing a sword without cutting my own leg off," finished Merlin. "We'll need you to use _this_ sword if we're caught. We _would_ get caught if someone saw you trying to wear a suit of armour this small."_

_Percival entered their hide-out then, a dead end of one of the dungeon passageways, carrying over either shoulder the two other unconscious guards from behind the alcove in the upper corridor._

"_Whoa. I don't know what you did, Merlin, but they're out cold," said the large knight, letting the two soldiers drop unceremoniously to the ground. By the height and size of the men, Gwaine was out of luck again in being anyone other than the 'prisoner.' Leon and Jack the soldier each commandeered the armour pieces and hastily fitted them on._

_The helmet, which covered Merlin's whole head, had a vertical eye slit and a horizontal slit that ran from the vertical one down his face to the chin. It completely hid his identity, but also hid his vision. He had to lift it from over his eyes again as he strapped his sword to his right side, which would give Gwaine easy access if, when, the need arose._

"_How long 'til dawn?" asked the warlock, again shifting the helmet, this time in a disgruntled manner._

"_Many hours yet," said Percival, using a found rope to bind the four guards together. He gagged them with their own socks. "Is that what we're waiting for?"_

"_Don't you think it would be suspicious if we were to wander around with 'prisoners' before the sun rose, with no particular reason? Even the least curious would be obliged to interfere. We should wait."_

"_And what about these poor sods?" asked Elyan, indicating to the real prisoners of Essetir castle in the cells._

"_We can't do anything for them now. We'll have to take out Morgrim and his sorcerers first." Merlin's jaw clenched nervously. "I'm not sure how we'll do that."_

_Gwaine put a hand on the warlock's shoulder and shook him lightly. "Don't worry, mate. When push comes to shove, just step aside and trip the other guy." The ruffian knight shrugged nonchalantly. "Works for me every time."_

"_Yeah, unless he trips himself by accident," muttered a grinning Percival, and he got glares from both the servant and the knight, as they weren't sure who he was referring to. It gave the others an excuse to chuckle, at least._

_With one man always on watch, the others passed the time with jokes, thumb wars and comforting the prisoners. The unfortunates were victims of lies and framing. Men of Essetir castle would have some fun with the slaves, and then use their resistance as an excuse to lock them up to await torture and/or execution. Many of them had been in the cells for over a month, forgotten and neglected. Some wished they _had_ been killed by hanging, for the cold, hunger and thirst nearly drove them mad._

_Merlin had just finished unshackling a woman's wrists and binding the sores with the torn shirt of one of the unconscious guards when the call of dawn was announced._

"_We move now," said Leon, putting on the stolen helmet._

"_We'll be back for you," Merlin whispered soothingly to the weeping woman. "I promise."_

_The woman touched Merlin's cheek with a boney hand. "You've a noble heart. Go, get the bastards. Show them what a real man is."_

_Elyan and Merlin stood on either side of Gwaine and a soldier called Peter, both of whom appeared to have their hands bound by ropes, but the binds were loose, and they had daggers taken from the unconscious guards under their shirts, tucked into their belts. Leon and Jack held onto Percival and the soldier Wilhelm similarly. The last three soldiers would remain with the freed prisoners, and defend them against whoever may come. Even wounded Bromly kept on an air of determination worthy of a man of Camelot._

"_Let's do this," said Merlin, and they marched down the memorized route to the steps. At the top, and with a backwards glance at them all, the servant pushed the door open._

_They were fronted by a horse-faced guard who appeared prepared to sound an alarm. Gwaine broke the weak binds around his wrists and punched him in the nose. They all heard and grimaced at the sound of crunching bone as the guard fell in a senseless heap._

"Gwaine_," said Elyan, rolling his eyes._

"_What? Better safe than sorry."_

"_Let's move him."_

_'Moving' was not the best word of choice: they simply let the guard roll down the stairs behind them. _

"_He looks annoying anyhow," Gwaine muttered as Merlin retied the bindings around his wrists. "One of those irritating faces, you know?"_

_As the others were militarily disciplined, they easily marched in sync, creating a perfect image of guards transferring prisoners to the other dungeons. Merlin, however, kept tripping in the tight armoured boots. Somehow, infuriatingly, the helmet was too big while the boots were too small._

_Dawn shone through the eastern windows as they trooped along, nodding tightly at any they passed, at one point walking around a curious mess of sweepers and buckets that had toppled from an open broom cupboard. _

_Merlin ran through the kitchen maid's directions in his head, but grew alarmed when they became scrambled with each other. As the corridor split, the servant said, "...Um..."_

"_If yer looking fer Romulus's cells, yer going the wrong way."_

_Merlin nearly jumped out of his skin as Severus the Savage stepped up from behind, smiling wolfishly. How long had he been following them?_

"_Ah, oh, f-forgive me, my lord," stammered Merlin, and not all of it was an act. "I-I'm still trying to figure everything out, sir. I'm new, sir. I—"_

"_It's that way," sneered Severus, pointing back the way they'd come with a pudgy finger. "Left at the next corridor, past the Hall o' Trophies, down the right hand staircase an' along that passage t' the end."_

"_Oh, thank you, my lord! That—"_

_Severus waved a hand. "I didn' do it fer _you_, scumball. I know how my brother loves 'is..." He licked his lips. "...Playmates." He grinned maliciously, but started when Gwaine lunged at him. His lolling jowls quivered with fright as Merlin and Elyan just managed to restrain the knight. While Severus glared furiously at them all, Merlin kicked Gwaine as hard as he dared. Elyan punched him in the stomach. Gwaine, for his part, groaned piteously and fell to his knees. The slave master snorted with satisfaction and departed._

_When the escapees were alone, Gwaine looked up at Merlin scornfully. "You call _that_ a kick?"_

_They followed Severus's directions, and soon enough, they came to the end of a hall, from which a narrow staircase descended to the underground. The door at the foot of those stairs was foreboding, designed with a whole manner of horrid carvings that were too foul to look upon for longer than a few moments._

"_Romulus could be in there," said Merlin, impatiently removing his helmet entirely as it once again fell over his eyes. "We must be ready." He descended the stairs and tried the door, but it was locked. That may explain why it wasn't even guarded._

"_Okay, now what?" asked Elyan, also removing his helmet._

"_We can't pick this lock," said Leon, coming down beside Merlin peeking into the keyhole. "Not without some legitimate tools."_

"_Perhaps if we knock...It was just a _suggestion!Sheesh!_" Gwaine threw his hands into the air, and everyone stopped staring at him in disdain._

_Merlin returned to the top of the stairs, and paused. "Lift me to that window," he told Percival, as he was the tallest. Though puzzled, the knight obliged. He got down on one knee and let the warlock step into his interlocked hands. He hoisted him to the window, and Merlin grasped onto the stone sill set in the wall near the stairwell. He pulled himself up, glanced about, and then nodded in confirmation._

"_The whole dungeon is underground," he said, releasing the ledge and dropping lightly to the floor._

"_So?"_

"So_ – air needs to get in somehow. There must be vents somewhere outside, dug into the ground. We should start there."_

"_And do what, exactly?" asked Leon. "Chances are they're not very big, not enough to climb through."_

_Merlin shrugged. "Well, if you have any initiatives, Sir Leon, please, _share_."_

_The air was getting tense, and they all knew it. Their king could be down there, suffering or dying. They were running out of time._

_Leon sighed, calming his anger at Merlin's insolence. The man was a servant, but Arthur's servant, his trusted friend. "Let's smash those windows."_

_Merlin dropped through the shattered window first, and scouted the area for sentries. There was one on the wall, but the battlements were over ninety paces away, and the ground above the dungeon was rocky and uneven, making good cover._

_Glancing up and around, Merlin saw that he was in the shadows of the northern-most turret, and high above was the stone bridge spanning from the castle to the mountain, the emergency escape route._

_Merlin made two rapid sounds with his teeth, not quite a whistle but pitched high enough for the others to hear. While they climbed out, Merlin flattened himself against the ground and crawled, searching. Sure enough, there were holes in the rock, crisscrossed by iron bars. Air vents. And the sun was just in the right position to allow light to shine down into those on the eastern side of the rocks. Without waiting for his companions, Merlin started checking every single one. _

_Just as he began to think that Arthur wasn't in the eastern cells but in the west where he couldn't be seen, or that he was somewhere being tortured, or that he wasn't even in the dungeons at all, he found him._

_What he saw made him feel like he was kicked in the guts: Arthur was a wreck. Merlin had come too late to save his friend from a terrible ordeal. He was bloodied, trembling, and had no function of one leg by the looks of it. Merlin knew that this was going to be on his conscience forever. _

_But, remarkably, the king of Camelot was standing up. He was listing heavily to one side, and he was swaying alarmingly – but he was standing up._

"_Camelot needs me," said Arthur. He growled. "Camelot needs me."_

"_I dare say it does," Merlin said. The king flinched and slowly turned to look up through the grate._

"_But...but I saw you die," Arthur stammered, astonished, as he wavered on his feet._

"_So did I," Merlin replied, and grinned._

* * *

><p><strong>So, there you have it.<strong>

**There are some familiar faces out there – _you_ guys didn't think I would _really_ kill ol' Merlin, now did you? Come on, mates, it's me!**

**By the way, I don't think yodelling started until the sixteenth century or something. It was just the most random thing I could think of for Gwaine to say at the time...**

**Rough Latin Translations:  
><strong>**Monstrare mihi sociis ardent: show me my comrades**

"**I no longer try to change the world, dragon. I just try to get by in it." ~ Bowen (Dragonheart)**


	10. The Great Escape

**Fact: this story ended up being almost five times longer than I intended.**

**Hey, would somebody mind giving me a legit, one hundred percent, full-out, fire-all-cannons critique? Because I'm disgusted with myself about this story, and may even delete it once you guys have all read it. It would be for the best...**

**I swear to you, I've never written anything like this before, and I am to _never_ again. The character whump is really bad (as you know), not like my other stories, which are much milder and..._tolerable_. **

****Please tell me, you avid readers out there, that you've read worse on this site. **_**Please**_**. It would make me feel slightly better about myself...Okay, a **_**lot**_** better about myself.****

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><p>~10~ <span>The Great Escape<span>

Merlin put a rag in Arthur's mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue, and also to silence him, as the servant popped his dislocated shoulder back into its socket. The king was ashen-faced as Merlin released him, but he swallowed the pain and just took several deep breaths as he relaxed.

"Move your arm," the servant ordered, but Arthur just stared. Merlin clicked his tongue. "Alright then. Percival?"

"An illusion. It was an illusion?" Arthur fell faint. "It looked so real..."

Percival put his arm and shoulder through the hole, created when they'd worked off the grate (well, that _Merlin_ had created, with some aid from his forbidden ability), and waited to pull them both out. Merlin had been the only one small and thin enough to fit through the tight squeeze like a bug, even with armour, so getting Arthur out would prove a big challenge, especially because he was injured.

"This probably won't work," Merlin muttered, comparing Arthur's size to the width of the gap above. "You may be too fat."

The king's bewildered, shocked expression turned into one of infuriated exasperation, and he called Merlin something that would've made a tavern brawler blush. The servant simply grinned.

"Let's just try," said Percival. Arthur reached up to let the knight grasp his wrist, as his own hands were crippled, but it was too high. Even if they could reach each other, the situation would have been very awkward. Merlin stepped forward and got onto his hands and knees.

"Stand on my shoulders," he said. Arthur looked sceptical.

"Are you strong enough?"

"Just do it."

It wouldn't have been possible if the king was wearing armour, but as he was just in a ragged shirt and trousers, Merlin managed to get off his hands, and eventually rise to a crouch, using the wall to help him. He put all his strength on his left side, where Arthur listed heavily because of his injured right leg. With him on one knee, Percival was able to grab Arthur by the elbow, yet it wasn't high enough to get him out without hurting him, so Merlin forced himself to straighten and stand on both feet. Inevitably, his knees started to quiver under the strain.

"Hurry up!" he grunted, fighting to retain his balance.

"My shoulders are too wide," said Arthur defensively.

"Are you sure it's your shoulders and not your stomach—?"

"_Merlin!_"

Despite the expanding ache on his upper back, Merlin grinned, but then an expression of horror flew across his face as he heard the distinctive click of a lock unlatching.

"Pretty boy ready to talk now? I don't mind if you don't. I like playing with my toys and best friends. You..."

Merlin and Arthur might as well have stared into the face of Medusa. They became so still, even their hearts seemed to stop.

"Well well, what _do_ we have here?" Romulus's shock was gone. "A new playmate?"

A spear of pain impaled Merlin's back, driving him forward into the wall. He fell, gasping soundlessly for air, leaving Arthur dangling in Percival's grasp.

"Aw, come on, don't leave now! We've only just started!" The Torturer flicked a finger. There was a ominous crack like wood snapping and suddenly Arthur was crashing down on top of Merlin, who groaned from the impact. Outside, Percival howled and supported a broken arm.

Arthur crawled off of Merlin and tried to stand, but his vision blurred and stars flashed, and he swayed precariously, dizzy from blood loss. The servant stood to support him as he looked ready to be sick from pain and nausea.

"And you said you didn't know who I was talking about," said Romulus, chuckling eagerly. "I asked you for the location of the boy, yet you said you didn't _know_ him."

Arthur just glared, breathing heavily through his nose as the agony coursed through him.

The Torturer grinned, his scarred mouth stretching grotesquely. "Thank you for bringing him to me. He and I have some unfinished business."

Arthur resisted the urge to glance over at Merlin in confusion, but he could feel the supporting man stiffen beside him.

Romulus moved so fast, the pair had no time to react before they were torn apart from each other and thrown to either side of the cell. Arthur gasped as his ruined knee was twisted, and he struggled to not pass out. Merlin hit the wall, shoulder first, his stolen armour clanging against stone. He slumped, stunned. Then the fluff flew from his head and he suddenly remembered the sword, strapped to his right hip.

He scrambled to his feet, drawing the blade awkwardly with his left hand. He tossed it to the other and held it in a ready position, taught to him by Arthur long ago. Romulus saw the sword, and laughed contemptuously.

"Little fool," he spat, but was still caught by surprise as Merlin lunged forward, aiming for his chest. He just managed to dodge out of the way, and he slashed at Merlin with his gauntlet of metal talons. With a yelp, the warlock stumbled, clutching at the shallow gashes in his neck. Arthur tried to stop him from crashing into him, but grunted as he failed and the pain returned.

Merlin threw himself away from the king and readied the sword again, glaring daggers at the Torturer. He stood between the sadist and the Pendragon defensively, and then Romulus's clawed hand ripped through the air, swift as a cat. There was a slicing sound like blade on whetstone. A moment later, Merlin stared as the blade of the sword fell, looking as though it had been cut from the hilt by a great pair of invisible shears. The tip landed with a pathetic clatter.

"Any more ideas?" asked Arthur, deadpan.

Merlin glanced at him over his shoulder, a hopeless look on his face, then he shrugged and hurled the sword remains at the Torturer. As Romulus attempted to duck beneath the flying hilt, Merlin lunged and tackled him from around the middle. They crashed to the ground in a tangle.

"Run, Arthur!"

The warlock didn't look to see if the king obeyed as he fought to keep the Torturer's clawed gauntlets from gauging his eyes out.

Romulus snarled, pushing Merlin onto his back and pinning him down. A stout, wide blade slipped from his sleeve into his hand. "I'll skin you alive, boy!"

Merlin's heart stopped as the flaying knife flashed past his face. A shearing pain shot across his forehead and he instinctively kicked. Romulus grunted, collapsing, and the warlock shoved him off. Before the next heartbeat he was on his feet. He booted the Torturer's side one more time and then threw Arthur's arm over his shoulders.

"Move it, clotpole."

In his haste, he pulled the king off-balance, making him cry out in pain. His damaged knee crumpled beneath him, and as he fell, he pulled Merlin into a bow.

"Up!" Merlin cried. "Get up!"

He straightened, then saw movement in the corner of his eye. He grasped fistfuls of Arthur's shirt and heaved him out the door just as Romulus's clawed gauntlets slashed across the space the king had until recently occupied. Merlin danced out of range of the second attack and flew out the exit after his friend.

"Just go, idiot!" Arthur snapped, trying to stand.

"Shut it, prat!" Merlin scooped a torch out of a bracket in the hall and swung it at Romulus's head as he emerged from the cell. The Torturer ducked beneath the flames before snatching at Merlin's wrist and holding the torch away. As they grappled with each other, Arthur stuck out his uninjured leg and tripped the sorcerer, and the man fell, dragging Merlin down with him. It was a shocking reflex that forced the warlock to stab at Romulus's hand with the butt-end of the torch.

The Torturer howled in fury and pain as Merlin scrambled away from him, once again throwing Arthur's arm across his shoulders and leading, or _dragging_, him down the corridor.

It was a circular dungeon, by the shape of the passageway. There were no side branches, and that made it very simple to find the exit. Merlin leaned the king against the wall and inspected the door, hiding his hands from Arthur's view. The door had been magically locked, but with a spear of his own power, Merlin dislodged the pins inside with ease and silently shattered the Torturer's spell like china in one go. Romulus would have had all the time in the world to weave that spell; Merlin came to the conclusion that he was not a very powerful sorcerer, just a sick, twisted sadist.

"Door wasn't locked," explained Merlin as he pushed it open. Arthur never suspected a thing. The warlock supported him once more and took him up the stairs, into the belly of the northernmost turret, kicking the door shut behind him.

There was no response when the servant called through the broken window to the outside. The knights and soldiers of Camelot were gone. Where, Merlin didn't know. He could only hope that they had gotten to safety, if that was possible here.

He started to lead his friend down the corridor as fast as he dared. Arthur was breathing heavily, his limbs shaking with fatigue and pain.

"_Wait_, wait, put me down." His chest rattled as Merlin obliged, and the servant crouched beside him in concern. Arthur's wounds were terrible on the outside. What had Romulus done to him on the inside?

"I—" He coughed, a horrible hacking sound. "I can't keep going. It hurts—"

"Oh, don't be such a little _girl!_" Merlin snarled, but there was no force behind his words. He noticed the blood spattered all over his armour. Not his. Not Romulus's. Arthur's.

The servant shivered, then snapped, "What kind of a king are you? Lazy, worthless, who gives up when faced with a few bumps and bruises?"

"You'll go in the stocks for that," Arthur vowed, but he couldn't even glare reproachfully as his breathing hiccoughed worriedly.

"Good. Once we get back to Camelot." Merlin pulled the king back to his feet. "We'll climb the turret. There's an escape bridge—"

"My men..." Arthur's chest definitely wasn't right. He shuddered as Merlin shook him to keep him awake.

"I will find them. I have to get you to safety first."

"Stop sounding like there's hope, idiot."

"There _is_ hope, prat. _You_ stop saying there _isn't_, and _move your feet!_"

"You can't talk to your king that way! Thirty lashes for you, and that's a mercy!"

"Again, when we get back."

There would be no lashes, nor any time in the stocks. They both knew this, but just saying that there would be made them believe that they were going to make it out of this one alive, just like every other time.

"These must be the stairs up," said Merlin, using one hand to open a side door. Before he could lead Arthur in, the king threw his weight back in protest.

"Merlin, we must help my men."

"And we will, Arthur. _I_ will find them, but _you_ must—"

"I'll come with you."

"No! You'll only slow me down. I'll get you to safety and then—"

_KA-BOOM!_

Merlin shoved Arthur to the ground and protected him with his own body as the dungeon entrance exploded. He grunted as chunks of rock ricocheted of the walls and hit him in the back and legs, but otherwise they were both unharmed.

Okay, maybe Romulus was a _little_ stronger than Merlin supposed.

The Torturer emerged from the dust lit by the rising sun through the tall windows, but he made no image of a divine angel with his malicious demeanour and dark intentions.

Arthur couldn't stand again. Merlin, near panicking, hooked his arms under the king's armpits and started to drag him down the corridor, towards the archway that was the turret's exit. Romulus followed steadily, tendrils of black smoke licking off his arms and the tails of his cloak.

"Merlin, I order you to leave me." Arthur's head lolled, his words slurred.

The warlock ignored him.

"If you don't leave, I'll fire you."

Merlin just cursed at him foully enough to make his own mother slap him. Romulus got ever closer, sparks now flicking off his fingertips.

"You're fired."

There was a sudden blast of heat. Merlin screamed, which was not the reaction Arthur expected to receive from his words. The king was abruptly dropped, and he hit the stone floor with a groan. He turned his head up to glower at his former servant, only to see the man frantically smacking the flames that had emblazoned his arms and shoulders.

"Well well well, if it ain't the pretty boy an' the wee bunny!"

Severus the Savage came into view, arms raised. With a motion as though thrusting a ball from his chest, he conjured fresh fire that roared towards Merlin in a raging inferno, who cringed but failed to duck out of the way. The sorcerer cackled as the servant swatted the flames out in a panic, and then knocked him back against the wall with magic, dazing him. Merlin slumped, groaning. "Lord Morgrim will be pleased," the slave master hissed greedily.

The Torturer instantly stopped laughing, and snarled with scorn, "Fool! You think he'd be _pleased_ to hear that his prisoners escaped us both, even if we did recapture them? Who knows what kind of chaos and treasonous thoughts they've poisoned the people with. He must never know they escaped."

Arthur frowned. It was clear that Romulus was the older, and superior, brother. Perhaps because he was more terrifying?

Lying a few feet away, Merlin was thinking the same thing as Arthur. Though he could sense that Severus was more magically powerful, Romulus seemed to be the one in charge. Maybe he could use the jealousy that might have bred between them to his advantage. Somehow. His head was throbbing too much to think properly.

"Take this one back to my dungeon," said Romulus, nodding at Arthur. "The 'wee bunny' can come with me to the Chamber." A demonic grin spread across his scarred face. "I have yet to play Pendulum with anyone this week."

Both the words 'Chamber' and 'Pendulum' led to 'torture' in Merlin's mind, and suddenly an aching head didn't seem such a big deal.

The Torturer did not meet a wounded, harmless young man as he expected when he went to collect him. He met a wild, furious, and very protective servant swinging fists and ready to tear his throat out.

Merlin's hand was latched onto a broken stone piece as he swung it and hit Romulus across the jaw. The Torturer flinched and recoiled, giving Merlin the chance to punch with the rock-wielding fist into his ear. Romulus slashed wildly with his clawed gauntlets, but missed as Merlin danced away. He hit him once more, this time on the temple, and the sorcerer crumpled.

Severus roared in fury. Merlin spun around in time to dodge the spit of fire that shot towards him. It exploded on the wall as the warlock charged at the slave master, murder in his eyes. Severus must have seen the blood lust in that gaze, for his expression became one of horror and he stumbled backwards over the ruins of the dungeon door. Being so rotund, he more rolled than fell onto his back, and his arms waved like a beetle's in distress.

Merlin was merciless. He smashed the rock into the sorcerer's nose, and, hearing the sickening crunch of breaking bone and feeling the hot gush of blood on his hands, he stole a few daggers from Severus's knife belt, left the senseless man where he lay and returned to his king.

Arthur was staring at him, incredulously dumbfounded.

"I swear, I don't know you anymore, Merlin," he said, eyes wide.

۞ Ӂ ۞

The kitchen staff seemed pleased with return of their favourite clumsy but charming escapee. Merlin had followed his nose and rediscovered the kitchen, and took Arthur there to hide him. They had lost the chance to finish off the sorcerer brothers, as what seemed like an entire legion of Essetir soldiers paraded into the turret. Merlin had just managed to get his king into the side door undetected, which didn't lead up the tower as previously supposed but to a maze of hallways. He hid himself and Arthur in a cupboard – which was disturbingly snug – until the danger passed.

Arthur had forthrightly refused to leave the city without his knights, and though Merlin was annoyed, he figured that there should be someone he could trust to look after him while he went by himself to look for the men of Camelot. Unfortunately, the only people he truly trusts are those very same men he must search for. The kitchen staff will have to do.

The pretty kitchen maid, who had given the warlock directions before, was more than willing to help take care of the ailing king. She led both he and Merlin to a storage room full of flour, and made a little cubbyhole for Arthur to hide in. She covered him with empty flour sacks to keep him warm, promising to find proper blankets when she got the chance.

Both men thanked her sincerely, but she just smiled, her cheeks dimpling.

"I'm honoured to help those brave enough to toss that poser lord from his throne," she said. Her expression grew dark. "He should pay for what he has done to me, to my friend, to us all."

Before Merlin could ask what happened, the maid tossed a flour-dusted apron at him.

"You'll need a fresh disguise, I figure," she said, and Merlin slipped the apron over his head. For a moment the garment covered his view, but when it was down over his chest, he was suddenly faced with a white explosion.

Blind, he grunted and stumbled backward, tripping and falling over a barrel.

_Betrayed!_ he thought in despair and anger. And then the maid giggled.

"_Now_ you look like a right bread baker."

Merlin coughed and dusted powder from his eyes as he straightened from his cushions of sacks. The maid was holding a reflective silver platter before him, and he barely recognized himself covered in white.

"A very temporary disguise, I'm afraid," she said, shrugging. "But it may buy you some time."

"Thank you," replied the warlock, standing. He snorted flour out of his nose as politely as he could. "I...What's your name?"

"Lucia."

"And why have you given aid to us, Lucia? Strangers?"

Lucia suddenly looked very sad. "I'd rather not talk about it," she said. She turned from Merlin, towards Arthur lying hidden and cozy in the nest of flour bags. "I'll bring you some food, sire," she said, curtsying, and departed from the room.

"Stop staring or your eyes will pop out of your head, Merlin," muttered the king, and the servant tore his gaze away from Lucia, blushing.

By the time the maid returned, Merlin was trying to revive Arthur.

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><p><strong>A lot of you may be thinking, "Why doesn't Merlin heal Arthur with magic?" Well, regarding the TV series, I see it this way: magical healing is a very complex skill that requires years of devoted practice. The sorcerer would also have to have lots of power, not to mention knowledge. Merlin has the power, but not the knowledge; he would have been able to save Will, Freya, and Balinor otherwise, no?<strong>

**I take these assumptions and use them in my stories. Just thought I'd let you know :)**

**So how about that critique? Should I delete this cursed thing or just downsize the whump? I like the latter idea myself, but it's up to you, friend.**

"**My pride is the only thing that they can't take from me." ~ Sir William Thatcher (A Knight's Tale)**


	11. Betrayal

****Thanks for the reviews, critiques, and reassurances! :D The story stays. I feel much better now, knowing that there are worse fiends than I out there... ;D****

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><p>~11~ <span>Betrayal<span>

"Wake up, dollop-head!" Merlin snapped, but his tone was wary. The king's breath was ragged and shallow, his face ashen. His forehead was flaming hot. "I need water," the warlock insisted to Lucia, and the girl hastily fetched a pail and rags.

Arthur mumbled something, twitching erratically. His expression was pained and harried. Merlin soaked a rag and put it on his forehead, but gritted his teeth in frustration.

"He needs a physician," he said. "He's too badly hurt."

"I can get one," offered Lucia eagerly. "His name's Bartholomew. We can trust him."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. I will...Shh!" The maid held up a hand, listening through door. She peeked out, and then looked at Merlin, fear etched on her face.

"Guards! Cover him, quick! Now come with me."

Merlin swiftly obliged. After throwing empty flour bags over the king, he then picked up a full sack and carried it out the door with Lucia. When he saw the four armoured guards stomping around in the kitchens, he prayed that his powdery disguise would suffice.

He saw their armour, and then remembered his own, still on him.

_Fool!_ he snarled at himself, and 'accidentally' dropped flour across his gleaming arm bracers. _Whoops! Clumsy me._

The staff scurried out of the way of the intruding men, struggling to concentrate on their tasks. Every once in a while a guard would snatch up a loaf or a piece of fruit, take a bite, and then grimace before tossing it away. It was clear that not only slaves were looked upon as mere dirt beneath Lord Morgrim's toenails; servants were also – unless there were no paid servants at all, just slaves.

Merlin thought his contempt for the place couldn't wallow any deeper. He was wrong.

The warlock busied himself with making bread, fortunately having the skills to do so after many years under Arthur's employment. Oftentimes, the king would want a certain type of bread not being made in the kitchens at the moment, and he would order Merlin to make some, as to not bother the rest of the staff. It wasn't as if Merlin was too busy himself doing things like mucking the royal stables, washing the royal clothes and cleaning the royal bloody bedroom, now was he?

Though he tried not to, Merlin couldn't help but glance furtively at the guards as he got out all the necessary materials for bread making. One of them had started to wander towards the door where Arthur was kept hidden.

_You have no reason to go in there,_ he thought, urging the man to move on. _There's only flour in that room. _Y_ou're just a hungry dunderhead who loves to harass slaves. Go away._

But the guards were clearly not only there for hassling the staff. They were looking for something, or someone.

Merlin casually dusted off his apron, in vain of course, and picked up the flour sack. He threw it over his shoulder to carry and followed the guard as he opened the door and entered the storage room.

The guard never got the chance to sound the alarm when he saw Arthur's foot sticking out from his hiding place. Instead, he was dazed by a swung sack of powder from behind, and then knocked senseless by a frying pan.

Merlin nodded at Lucia as she hefted the metal pan, and she smiled.

"Oi, Bengy! Let's get outta here. There's no one hiding in the flour."

Both Merlin and Lucia started. Bengy was not going to be able to answer.

"Bengy! Come on, mate!"

In the end, more than one frying pan had a helmet-shaped dent in it, and all four guards were locked up in one place or another. Merlin never thought that giving people an excuse to laugh by falling down the stairs – and proving that there is hope yet of course – could create so many allies.

"I'll get Bart, the physician," said Lucia. Merlin nodded grimly, and again tried to awaken his friend, who had started to shudder uncontrollably.

"Come on, clotpole," he hissed, shaking Arthur lightly. Lucia watched in concern for another moment before scurrying off. Merlin was left alone.

He took a deep breath, anxiously glancing at Arthur's eyes to see if they'd suddenly flicker open. Then he spread a palm over the king's rattling chest.

"_R__ę__sp__ĭ__rare liber__ą__m__ę__nte_," he whispered, irises flashing like twin suns. "_Torp__ĕ__t dölor__ę__s_."

As though soothed from a horrific nightmare, Arthur stopped jerking spasmodically. His breathing evened and calmed. He looked fine, but Merlin did not relax. He had delayed the king's demise, tamed the pain, but that was all. He had not banished either of them.

He sat back on his heels, contemplating. His skills in the art of magical healing were minute, for over the years he could only practice on cuts, bruises, and the occasional pimple or two. He had never the opportunity to attempt the complex spells of flesh-regeneration for the more fatal wounds. After the death of his childhood friend, Will, many years ago, Merlin had spent countless hours memorizing those intricate spells so that no more friends would be lost to the clutches of Death. But knowing the spells was only half the battle. Channelling his magic to do what he wanted was a whole other fight, one that he found infinitely difficult and frustrating.

Once, years ago, he had found a rabbit that had escaped the talons of a hawk, but was injured for it. Eager to practice the healing magic, Merlin soothed the poor creature and reached for the power. On many an occasion, he'd trusted his natural abilities to lead him to do the right thing for new enchantments, and this had been no different, but as soon as he tapped into his magic and uttered the fateful words, he knew that things were going to go horribly wrong. Even as the spell passed over his tongue, he felt his magic buckle in his uncertainty and misfire. He'd screamed as the wounded rabbit writhed silently, and his vision swam before he slumped, senseless.

When he woke up, the rabbit was dead and dusk was falling. Weak, fuzzy-minded, he had returned to Camelot, too ashamed to tell Gaius, the physician, what had transpired. He never attempted such a thing again, even when Freya, his lover, was gravely injured. He had dared not in fear of killing her painfully. The same had been with his father, Balinor, whom he had only known for two days before he was murdered.

And then there was Uther, Arthur's father. Disguised as an old man, Merlin had tried to pull the king from the brink of death, and in fact succeeded, only for something to take a fatal turn, bringing about the demise of Uther Pendragon. Merlin had been crushed, and Arthur devastated.

Now, he stared down at his pathetically weak master, feeling this throat close and tears threaten to overwhelm him. He had failed Will, Freya, Balinor, and Uther, and if the king didn't survive, he will have failed him as well.

_Emrys._

_Aithusa! Don't go!_ Merlin just refrained himself from standing and staring at the ceiling in desperation. Not only would it be pointless, it would also have looked very stupid. Instead, he closed his eyes in concentration, clinging to the mental bond with the white dragon like a lifeline.

_Stay, _Aithusa said in a voice neither a whisper nor a cry.

_Yes, stay. Are you near?_

_I'm further than near._

That was the longest sentence Merlin had ever heard her speak.

_Can...can you come to Essetir castle, Aithusa?_

_Essetir. Dark place. Hurt. Suffering. Murderers._ Her tone became distressed, angered.

_Can you come? Please?_

_Emrys..._

The connection was severed, and Merlin was left hanging in the breeze. He pulled his mind back to current problems, slightly annoyed.

Then he made a decision. Pulling the king's tattered shirt up, he nearly vomited at the sight of Arthur's torn flesh beneath.

_What twisted cad could come up with such gruesome torture?_ he asked himself, swallowing his nausea. _Romulus is gonna pay for this. He's gonna regret ever putting his claws on _this_ king._

He grit his teeth and held his hand over a jagged but shallow cut on Arthur's chest.

"_Res__ą__n__ę__sco_." Before his very eyes, the wound's angry edges pulled together and sealed over, leaving a faint white scar. How he was going to hide or explain that if the king found it was not important. He moved onto the next injury.

A bruise here. A puncture there.

He left the cut on Arthur's cheek and the one over his left eye. There weren't too many mutilations on his face, and he couldn't possibly explain why there were were suddenly white scars on the king's features if he was asked about them.

After a while, Merlin sat back, feeling slightly tipsy and fatigued. He had done very little, but all he could. A physician is what's needed, and soon.

Within the hour, Arthur was groaning in distress again, warring against a raging fever.

_Where is Lucia?_ Merlin growled inwardly, restless as he paced around the storage room. He turned and nearly walked into the maid. She was breathing heavily, as though she had been fleeing.

"I've found Bart," she gasped. "How is he? Will he be all right?"

"Out of my way, out of my way!"

An old, wheezy, nasally-voiced man shoved past them both and hiked over the sacks of flour to get to the king.

"Ah, _this_ one again. I'd wondered where he had drifted off to." Bartholomew opened his handbag of leather and started fishing around for something. "I'll need fresh water, heated and cold," he ordered. "And rags to clean up this blood. Hurry now, hurry!"

Merlin had, from Gaius's teachings, a few normal, magic-less doctoring skills himself. Bart passed him thread and needle to help the physician save the king from the brink of oblivion.

Merlin had just finished sewing up the gash in Arthur's cheek when Bart spoke.

"Now, he can't be moved from here," said the old man, cleaning off his hands as he prepared for another bandage application. The king was mostly cleaned up now, and wrapped in gauze and disinfectant herbs. "He must stay still. He should never have been moved in the first place, but _here_ isn't the best place to stay..."

Merlin wasn't listening. He was staring at his hands, dripping royal blood. His face was sickly and pale.

Bart sighed. "He's gone into shock," he said to Lucia, who was watching Merlin strangely.

The warlock shook his head. "No. No, I'm fine." He hastily wiped the warm redness from his hands and continued to help the physician. "He's a strong man. He'll pull through."

"That's the way, laddie," Bart nodded. "Keep telling yourself that—"

Merlin flinched, and glowered at the healer. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"...Nothing! Nothing, boy! Here, pass me that..."

Even seeing the king wrapped like a mummy in bandages, the first step on the trail of healing, Merlin was not appeased. He felt like Arthur was hanging by his fingertips over a thousand foot fall, but Merlin couldn't save him, for a glass barrier was in the way. He could smash it, if he knew how.

Bart examined the king's left hand, the one with two missing fingers.

"We _can't_ keep him here," Merlin suddenly mumbled. He continued before the physician could protest. "If, _when_, those four guards are missed, they'll double the search and inevitably find them here in the kitchen. Unless they were moved, of course, which they should be...Where could we take them?" His last question was directed at Lucia, who stood back a ways, looking like a ghost.

Merlin could only blink when he felt the needle-like pain pierced his throat, into his jugular. He heard Lucia gasp and the old man sob as numbness spread throughout his limbs.

"I'm sorry!" Bart wailed, his scrawny shoulders trembling as he wept. "I'm so sorry! But they have my Katrina! My little Kitty." He still held the dart syringe in Merlin's neck, letting the poison seep into his bloodstream. "I have no choice. I'm sorry."

Shapes seemed to bleed into one another, to swirl like multicoloured inks in water, before Merlin's eyes. The warlock wavered, and as Bartholomew finally pulled the dart free, he slipped onto his side limply, his breathing irregular, beside the king.

Through the cotton in his ears he could hear Lucia screaming in fury. He tried to fight the impending void rolling towards him like a thunderhead, but it was like fighting off a real thunderhead, like halting the rain in its tracks.

The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a swarm of soldiers rushing into the room.

۞ Ӂ ۞

Sean darted into the broom cupboard as the party of soldiers trumped past, bringing three prisoners. Two were lifeless, the third was screaming and clawing at the guards holding her. Of the two motionless captives, Sean didn't recognize the black-haired one, as his face was hidden, but the other was none other than Arthur himself. Behind them all came Bart the physician, who was weeping.

Why was Bartholomew crying? Had they done something to his daughter? The youth knew he could trust Bart, but how could he communicate with him without attracting the others' attention? Sean followed them at a distance.

Eventually, they came to the physician's quarters. Arthur was brought in with Bart, while the other two strangers were taken away, the woman still struggling in vain. Then two guards were left outside the door, backs ram-rod straight. Sean couldn't recognize them through their concealing helmets, and as he was without his own, there was a chance they could know him as the deserter.

Bart and at least three more guards were inside the room. Sean slumped against the wall, hidden from view. This was turning out to be a worst-case scenario.

He scrambled to think of a plan. He could ambush a guard, take his helmet for disguising purposes, or perhaps acquire one from the armoury, then get some food from the kitchens. If he could convince these two guards that the food was for Arthur, he could get inside and...then what?

He sighed, peeking around the corner again. The guards hadn't moved, obviously. Biting his lip, Sean prepared to retreat. He'll get the food, and when he gets inside...Well, he'll cross that rickety old bridge over the bottomless pit when he got there. He turned around—

—And smacked right into Righty the giant bodyguard.

Sean staggered, then paled at the sight of the twins, each over two heads taller than himself.

"Ah. Hello, mates!" he said quietly, smiling sheepishly.

۞ Ӂ ۞

"Close the door, quick!"

Leon slammed the door behind Elyan and leaned his back against it, breathing heavily.

"Ouch, get off my foot!"

"Then shove over!"

"Stop squirming, you ninnies!"

"_Shhh!_"

There were a few moments of tense silence but for the sound of laboured breathing. When the rush of Essetir soldiers crashed past the cellar, the knights of Camelot relaxed.

"You could have picked a bigger spot, Elyan."

"Well, excuse _me_ for not taking the time to find the place I truly fell in love with," snapped the other knight in the rough direction from whence Leon's voice came.

"Awg! Gwaine, that was my arm!"

Gwaine cursed and stepped away from Percival in the dark, giving the big knight's broken arm more room.

"Anyone see any candles?"

"Sorry, Jack, but I can't turn on my night vision at the current moment. _Oof!_" Leon clutched his nose as he walked into a shelf.

"This is ridiculous. Open the door."

"Where's the door?"

"Over there."

"Where?"

"_Gah!_"

The room was suddenly flooded with light as Elyan bowled through his companions and wrenched open the door.

"Gwaine, you're an arse, so come keep watch."

The ruffian gave a mocking gasp of indignation. "I've never been so insulted in all my—"

"Quiet, all of you! Or you'll bring all of Essetir down on us."

No longer as blind as birds in a cave, the knights were able to compose themselves without hurting each other.

"Where are we?" asked Elyan, finding a seat on a barrel.

"You're the one who led us _here_," said Leon, frowning.

"So, we're lost," whispered Wilhelm the soldier timidly.

"Lost? No, we're not lost. We're just in deep sh—"

"Eye outside, Gwaine," interrupted Elyan, without looking at the other knight. Gwaine grumbled but obliged, cautiously glancing up and down the corridor, muttering all the while, "I knew we should have taken that left turn at..."

Percival sucked in a deep breath, keeping the stabbing, blinding pain in his arm from focus. "Not only have we lost ourselves, but our king, too."

"Merlin's with him. He won't let anything happen to Arthur," Elyan insisted, and the others nodded in agreement. But Percival wasn't reassured.

"You saw what that creature had done to Arthur. And he broke my arm with a flick of his finger! What hope does a _servant_ have against a sorcerer?"

"A fool's hope, I suppose." Leon shrugged. "I have faith in him."

"Two guards, due north...or perhaps east...whatever—they're coming this way." Gwaine closed the door to a slim crack.

"Can we take them?"

"Easily."

In a few moments, the two guards were senseless and looted of their armour and weapons.

"Ah, good. No one can beat my shot with a crossbow," said Leon in satisfaction, taking the weapon from its sheath on one soldier's back.

Gwaine put down the broken wine bottle used to knock another man out and took his sword. "These are terrible blades," he said in disgust. "A blacksmith this bad would be kicked from Camelot if he tried to sell these to the king."

"They'll have to make do," replied Elyan, passing the other crossbow to Peter the soldier and the second sword to Percival. It was fortunate the large knight could fight with his left as well as his right.

"What now?" asked Wilhelm.

"We do what we did just now for every man in Essetir Castle," said Gwaine. "We'll take down this army two men at a time."

Elyan was staring at the knight with an incredulous look. "_What_ goes on inside that head of yours?"

"No, he's right! That's exactly what we should do!"

"Leon, have you gone mad as well?"

"No no no, listen." Leon held up his hands as he explained. "We'll sneak around and take out every guard we can. If we do that, hiding the bodies, it'll cause confusion in the citadel. It will also spread fear."

"But it won't take long for them to send out every man they have to find us," Percival argued. "And chances are we won't be able to find Arthur before he's surrounded by a hundred guards."

"Then we'll find him first," said Leon impatiently.

"We should reunite with the other men," said Elyan.

"That's a good idea. Do you remember the way?"

"We went north to get to Arthur. It's still morning; I can use the sun to find south, and from there, the dungeons. Hopefully."

Elyan took Jack and Wilhelm with him. Disguised in armour, they went unopposed through the castle. At one point they came across the armoury, loaded to overfilling with weapons, chain mail and metal plates. They noted its location and moved on.

"I think it's this way," said the knight, glancing out the window and taking the left corridor. They turned a corner into a low arcade, the side archways open to a courtyard. Across the empty space were barracks. Laughter could be heard from within.

"We should keep moving," said Jack nervously.

Before the company of three could do so, five Essetirian soldiers swaggered around the corner behind them, laughing and slapping each other on the back.

"Damn, that li'l lady could squeal!" chortled one.

"I've never seen a woman so mad," agreed a second.

"Must have spoiled the sheets with one of those other guys."

"Yeah, or_ both!_"

More raucous laughter.

"'Magine givin' your heart to a king."

"Dash it all, George, I didn't know you were like that."

"Shut it, Harold."

"You guys c'n laugh. You didn' get attacked by the lanky one."

"What, the one with the ears?"

"Yeah. I was lockin' 'im up when 'e suddenly opens 'is eyes and stares at me, and he looks ready t' _kill_ me...! Stop _laughin'!_"

Elyan and his two companions leaned casually against a stone banister, pretending not to be interested. Their ears followed the five rowdy men as they strolled across the yard to the barracks.

"It's gonna be good this afternoon. There's gonna be a mass hanging!"

"Thirty-two people, I hear. All them kitchen slaves are convicted of treason and harbouring."

"They gonna hang the Camelot king, too? I never seen a king hung'ed before."

"I can't wait t' see the lanky one swing, no sir! Where's it gonna happen?"

"In the southern courtyard. That has the biggest gallows."

Their words became too indistinct to hear anymore. The three Camelot companions abandoned their casual stances and stared at each other, eyes wide.

"We must warn the others."

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Ooooooooh, dear.<strong>**

****Rough Latin translations:  
>Respirare liberamente: breathe freely<br>****Torpet dolores: numb the pain  
><strong>******Resanesco****: be healed****

**"Do we have a plan? I mean it doesn't have to be Wellington's at Waterloo, but some kind of plan would be nice." ~ Carl (Van Helsing)**


	12. Once Bitten, Twice Shy

**Well, here we go.**

**hpenchantress****, I hope you got that homework done... ;D**

* * *

><p>~12~ <span>Once Bitten, Twice Shy<span>

The noose was coarse and merciless around his neck. It rubbed cruelly against his skin, a constant reminder of his inevitable doom.

There were two score Essetirian soldiers standing at attention around the gallows. An audience of grovelling slaves was separated from the regal crowd of highborn gents and ladies by yet another line of soldiers. Over twenty shackled men and women stood behind the stage, heads bowed in submission. Ten other prisoners, waiting anxiously on the gallows, were being covered by grey hoods one by one. Merlin would soon be next.

The warlock found himself scanning the crowd frantically for his mother. Several times, he forced himself to stop, but his eyes unwillingly continued to search for the woman he trusted most in the world. His scrutinizing was in vain, and he wasn't sure if the ache that blossomed in his chest was relief or despair.

Hanging. What a way to go. After all he'd been through...

It seemed heartless, unjust. Better to fall off a horse, black out and drown in a creek. Better to trip down the stairs and snap his neck. Better to die of food poisoning! But no, a hanging shall be his reward for following his life, for serving his destiny for the greater good. A hanging at the hands of a monster and his dogs. It wasn't _fair_.

Without pause, Merlin's hands worked furiously at the bonds behind his back; his wrists were raw from chafing against the rope. He could use magic, of course, and had tried several times, but Severus the sorcerer was prepared, and particularly vicious with his binding and holding spells. The wards were completely unfamiliar, and thwarted Merlin's every effort to liberate himself. The other prisoners were similarly bound so he could not free even them. Perhaps if he had a knife, he could cut the rope, for why would Severus worry about physical escape methods?

For about the fifth time, Merlin glowered at the gallows lever, which, when pulled, would end the life of ten people simultaneously. But, for the fifth time, his spell rebounded, hitting the invisible barriers he could not overcome. He had never faced anything like them.

Eventually, his raw wrists couldn't take anymore, and he stopped to rest. He took the time to scout the area and gather his bearings, and he saw Romulus sitting on a podium to the left, looking stormy and vengeful. It was clear he hadn't wanted his 'playmates' to be stolen away by a simple hanging. Where was the fun in that? Around the Torturer were five other sorcerers. Merlin could sense their taint from the gallows.

To the right were the stables. The mutterings of uneasy horses were barely heard over the restless audience. Behind, Merlin remembered, loomed the keep of Essetir Castle, connected to the outer battlements via a stone bridge, where soldiers could swiftly rush to defend the walls.

Twenty paces before the gallows, past the audience, was another stage set at the foot of a grand tower. Below a green and black canvas was a throne, and a few sets of more plain chairs. There, on the throne, must be where the lord of Essetir will sit.

Three nooses down, the hangman was covering a captive's head with a sack. Though Merlin couldn't see the captive's features, he could tell by the man's stature and filthy curses that it was Gwaine.

Gwaine. If the ruffian was here, caught and awaiting execution, then the others must be as well, somewhere in the lineup of the doomed and damned behind the gallows, shackled like lost souls awaiting Hell.

He could hear Lucia weeping as her head, too, was covered. He felt like weeping with her. He had brought this upon all of the kitchen slaves. It was his fault.

_So save them._

But how?

_Save them._

"Ladies and gentlemen! His Majesty Morgrim III, king of Essetir, Lord of..."

_king? He calls himself a _king_?_ Merlin turned his ears off from the announcer and continued to look for a means of diversion. He was sure that screaming, "Look! A distraction!" wasn't going to cut it this time. Eventually, his attention was recaptured and dragged to a procession of nobles, led by a dashing man riding proudly through the parting crowd on a muscular roan steed. Merlin recognized the beast as Arthur's best horse, taken when he had been enslaved.

_How dare he?_ Merlin raged inwardly, feeling his teeth grind, and found himself wondering what had become of his friend and master. His enquiry was soon answered.

After Lord Morgrim and his extravagantly-dressed nobles came a cart drawn by a pathetically-thin mule, flanked by a pair of armoured, mounted guards, halberds in hand. On the cart was a metal cage. His wrists chained high to the front side of the cell, Arthur sagged lifelessly on his knees, head resting forward against his suspended arms.

The king of Camelot was announced, and the sophisticated applause from the aristocrats was swallowed by the heart-wrenching wave of despair that rose from the slaves. Their final hope of salvation was lost with the capture of Essetir's archenemy. Morgrim's lip curled in disgust and indifference at the wails of the hapless slaves, and he ignored the colourful threats and oaths of retribution thrown at him as he dismounted the roan stallion and took his seat on the throne.

When a brave woman from the crowd of workers broke free of the others and charged at the cart, Merlin's yell of, "_No!_" was drowned out by the roar of the spectators. The woman hurtled herself onto the cart with surprising agility and starting hitting the lock of the cage with a rock. A mounted guard nonchalantly hit the woman in the back with his halberd, and she crumpled, howling in pain. She rolled off the cart and was run over by the wheels. The crowd was outraged, but was held in check by the guards of Essetir.

The sounds must have revived Arthur, for, as Merlin warily watched him for signs of life, the king finally raised his head, eyes squinting against the light. The servant's heart clenched. Arthur was alive, at least. But for how long?

The king glanced sluggishly up at his wrists, manacled to the metal bars, then at his surroundings as the cart was backed into place near Morgrim's throne podium. He got off his knees and tugged fruitlessly at the chains, teeth baring into a snarl. Then his gaze locked with Merlin's across the stretch of twenty strides, over the sea of various faces, and as reality caught up, his expression became one of fury and hopelessness.

Merlin surrendered to his tears of despair. He heard a thudding behind him, and suddenly he went blind as a rough sack was pulled over his head. There was a malicious chuckle, and Merlin recognized it as Severus's.

"Die for real now," he hissed, and even through the bag over his face, Merlin could smell the stench of rancid onions. "A swift drop, a sudden stop, an' no more wee bunny."

It was more of a surprise to the warlock than the slaver when Merlin snarled and tried to kick him. Bursts of contemptuous laughter spewed from the spectators. Merlin couldn't enjoy the victory, for the sorcerer slammed a vengeful fist into his stomach with the power of a battering ram. Doubling over, Merlin choked as the rope pulled taunt around his neck. He straightened, heart throbbing. Severus left the gallows, still snickering in derision.

"I shall enjoy this."

The darkness of the cover and the feel of the noose on his throat quickened Merlin's breathing. Panic, struggling to take over, was winning out.

"By decree of king Morgrim III of Essetir, Lord of Northern Albion, Ruler of the Coast, those convicted of crimes against the empire are sentenced to death." The rehearsed terms of the announcer echoed emptily around the courtyard. "These crimes being both plenty and sinister in nature, the convicts of the following transgressions do now stand before you: treason, hearsay, murder, vandalism, kidnapping, trespassing, and harbouring fugitives from the crown. By decree, all those convicted of said crimes are hereby sentenced to hang by the neck until death doth ensue."

_Murder? Kidnapping? What is this rubbish?_ Merlin could hear the other nine shifting uneasily to his left, though his pounding heart nearly drowned them out. The reining panic squirmed with glee and forced the warlock to rock from foot to foot, and tried to make him break down completely.

_No!_ he snapped at it, grasping onto the remains of his calm composure for the sake of dignity. _I shall not be overcome._

Even so, he felt his breathing rate increase, and could do nothing to slow it as he heard footsteps thud along the podium behind him. The hangman was heading for the lever that would drop the trapdoors below the convicts' feet, including Merlin's.

The warlock heard Lucia crying beside him still. Gwaine continued to curse foully. Merlin sobbed, "Freya—"

The floor disappeared.

۞ Ӂ ۞

_If I close my eyes, this will never happen._

_If I keep my mouth sealed, it won't admit defeat._

_If I shut my ears from the world, I won't hear my friends die._

Arthur felt like a child hiding from a nightmare. But it wasn't a nightmare. It was for real. The anxious aura of all, the sudden calm, then the creak of the wooden trigger and the thud of dropping trapdoors, the gasp of the crowd. Finally, the snap of a life ending in less than a heartbeat. It was all too, and agonizingly, real.

He opened his eyes, and forced himself to stare between the bars of his cage into the face of his failure, to burn the memory into his mind forever. A single, traitorous tear rolled free, creating a clean streak through the grit down his cheek. It had fallen off his chin by the time he registered what he was truly seeing.

It was not a row of dangling corpses, now fodder for crows. Nor was it a miraculous phenomenon where the trapdoors refused to drop and left the ten captives safe. No, it was something in between.

Three bodies dangled lifeless. Another stood looking confused, his covered head turning from side to side. The podium beneath his feet had never collapsed. The last six were hanging from their nooses, but the trapdoors hadn't fallen properly, or fast enough. The six were helpless as they kicked and thrashed, unable to die quickly. One of those was Merlin.

Lord Morgrim's jovial, booming laugh blared across the courtyard.

"What a performance this has turned out to be! The hangman never properly attended to his gallows!" Again he let out a bark of laughter. "I'm so sorry, your majesty," Morgrim sneered at Arthur the way only a malevolent leader could sneer, "now we must watch them _strangle_ to death!"

"_Now!_"

There was a shrill whistle and a thud, followed by a howl of agony. The hangman, who was struggling to pull the gallows's lever all the way down, slumped lifelessly, a crossbow bolt between his shoulder blades.

For a moment, all could only stare in shock, and then there was a mad panic.

"Order! _Order!_"

Despite Morgrim's bellowed commands, his sergeants were unable to keep control over the terrified crowd. When two of the mounted guards fell, bolts emerging from their necks, both both slaves and nobles alike fled for the gates, pushing and shoving, trampling those unfortunate enough to fall.

"They're locked! We're trapped!"

Wails of terror rose. Chaos reigned as more soldiers died from waspish bolts of invisible archers, and horses panicked at the noise and commotion.

Arthur, staring with his eyes wide from his prison, barely heard Morgrim's roars of anger.

"Romulus! Severus! Calm this rabble down, or feel the noose around _your_ necks!"

From the podium on Arthur's right, Romulus began ordering his five sorcerers about. Then, in quick session, three of those mages fell, screaming in pain, dying by the crossbow before they hit the ground.

Furious, Morgrim drew his sword and kicked his throne uselessly, a child throwing a temper tantrum. Then he froze, staring at the gallows. Arthur followed his gaze, and blinked in surprise.

A man bearing the serpent crest of Essetir had shoved his way through the panicky crowd and hurtled himself onto the stage of nooses. He drew his sword and sliced the bonds of the fortunate man who avoided the hanging entirely, the one whose trapdoor never even budged. Hands now free, the man pulled of the noose and bag from over his head. It was Gwaine.

The Essetirian soldier tossed Gwaine a dagger and they both got to work cutting down those still hanging, those still choking slowly to death.

"Guards, _guards!_ Stop them!" Morgrim pointed frantically at the gallows with his sword, jiggling from one foot to the other. When no one heard him, or all ignored him, he prepared to drop off from the podium, but the crowd was too thick with slaves and soldiers. He stamped his foot in frustration. Arthur almost laughed.

The king watched with eager anticipation, though dared not hope, as Gwaine hacked the rope holding Merlin suspended. The servant fell and disappeared through the trapdoor below, and was lost from Arthur's sight.

_Get up_, he thought urgently._ Get up and get out! Let me see you alive._

When the loud thunderclap exploded throughout the courtyard, order was almost restored. Slaves and nobles cowered, clamping their hands over their ears and cringing from the magic-created noise. The militarily disciplined soldiers of Essetir immediately set about straightening things out, the ones still on horses herding the workers into semi-organized groups. Then the Essetirian turncoat on the gallows put two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

From the stables to the western side of the yard suddenly burst forth a stampede of terrified horses. They crashed through the lines of soldiers and wrecked more havoc, knocking men flying or trampling them underfoot. The second implosion of thunder from Severus only succeeded in scaring the poor beasts even further. They were already being pushed to the limits: the mixture of loud, crashing noise and fire was none-too soothing for them – Arthur watched as the stables went up in flames. This was not a desperate, two-minute-made plan. This was a well conducted break-out, and it was working.

"Greetings, your royal excellency!"

Arthur's neck hurt as he snapped it around to see a young man clamber onto the cart with him and unlocked the cage with a ring of keys.

"Sean! What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Like I said, I owe you my life," replied the youth, pulling the cage door open. "I told you you haven't seen the last of me!"

Sean unlocked the manacles around Arthur's wrists.

"Where did you get the keys?"

The man grinned. "New friends. _Giant_ friends."

"Did you do _this?_" Arthur watched the chaos of the courtyard, which worsened with every moment.

"Me? No. Some other hotshots beat me to it!" He threw Arthur's arm over his own shoulders and helped him off the cart, before supporting him behind Morgrim's throne podium. There, an inconspicuous door was open to the tower, ready to admit them. Inside was a dark corridor. The youth hesitated. "Righty and Lefty should be breaking the gates down by now. They're really quite nice guys, those two. Smarter than they seem—"

"Wait for me!"

Sean nearly dodged inside the door at the voice barely heard over the din, but Arthur intervened in protest, and Merlin rounded about the throne podium and slid to a stop beside them.

"_Whoo_, that was close," said the servant, panting, hands on his knees.

Sean looked astonished. "Merlin? What are _you_ doing here?"

The servant frowned. "Do I know you?"

"It's me! Sean, from Ealdor, remember?"

Merlin blinked, and then recollection spread across his features. "Oh, oh, Sean! How are you, mate?"

"Tired. Help me carry him?"

Merlin grabbed Arthur's other arm in support, grinning at the king's amazed, yet grateful, look.

"I thought you were a goner for sure, Merlin," he said, his relief showing through his pain.

"So did I," the servant replied grimly. "In fact I still may be one."

Arthur laughed, and it felt good to do so. "Imagine your life not employed to me," he chortled. "It would've been a lot quieter."

"When we get back, I'm resigning."

"I don't think so, idiot."

"Just watch me, your highness."

Arthur paused. "...What did you say?"

The servant's expression became one of distress. His words were sincere and courteous. "I'm sorry, your majesty. Did I offend you?"

Arthur stared at him, eyes wide. Then his hand suddenly flew to Sean's knife belt, snatched out a dagger and stabbed Merlin in the throat.

Sean gasped as blood squirted from the servant's neck and mouth, and he dropped the king as he retreated. Arthur's hand was still grasping the dagger as he fell, and it tore out of Merlin's flesh, releasing more blood.

"Arthur, what have you done?"

"Sean, get back! It's not Merlin."

"_What?_"

The Merlin who was not Merlin grasped his neck, coughing blood and choking, and he fell to his knees. He stared accusingly into Arthur's eyes, betrayed.

Arthur sneered. "For future reference, Severus, I'm the _prat_."

The illusion slumped lifelessly, and then dissipated like smoke into the ground.

"Saints alive," Sean breathed.

"Severus knows where we are," Arthur grunted, using the wall to help himself stand. "We can't stay here."

* * *

><p><strong>An appropriate chapter title, wouldn't you agree?<strong>

"**You can't argue with all the fools in the world. It's better to let them have their way, then trick them when they're not paying attention." ~ Brom (Eragon)**


	13. Destiny's Bane

_**What?**_** You guys are still ****_here?_ I thought I scared you all off with my demented, twisted mind and callous heart...**

* * *

><p>~13~ <span>Destiny's Bane<span>

Percival waited in the shadows of the half-built wall with Elyan, ignoring the stabbing pains of his splinted right arm. Behind the knights, the miniature army of vengeful slaves huddled in anxious expectation, whispering to and hushing each other, sweaty hands tightening around makeshift and stolen weapons until their knuckles flared white as marble. They all listened to the echoing declarations emerging from over the citadel's wall, the knights swallowing rage as they heard their king's name being announced with little respect.

Elyan shifted uneasily, glaring daggers at the two guards standing obliviously at the drawbridge's entrance. "Come on," he said, gritting his teeth.

"What are we waiting for?" hissed one of the slaves impatiently. "We can't stay much longer without risking detection. We must have been noted missing by now!"

Percival ignored the slave and listened to the cries emerging from the citadel, from the gallows of the courtyard. He closed his eyes and waited for the opportune moment. That moment was taking an awfully long time to emerge.

"Ready the signal," ordered Elyan after a few more agonizingly slow minutes. There was the snap of flint striking and then a gentle whoosh as the arrow tip of tar was engulfed with flames.

A terrified roar of the gallows audience split the evening sky, and Percival yelled, "FIRE!"

The signal arrow shot straight into the air, and all at once, the organized armies of rebellious slaves attacked from the four corners of the city. Percival and Elyan led their roaring unit into the throat of the citadel, and the revolution began.

۞ Ӂ ۞

Merlin tore the blinding sack from over his head after the binds were sliced from his hands, chest heaving for sweet breath, throat burning as though a blacksmith had decided to pour the molten contents of a smelter down his neck. He turned to face his saviour, and was surprised to see Gwaine, who was grinning mischievously.

"Join the fun, Merlin!"

"You rogue!" The warlock laughed as he saw three Essetirian guards being chased by fear-driven horses from his view beneath the gallows stage. "Trust you _nincompoops_ to cause such chaos!"

He looked to find Lucia, the kitchen maid, beside him, pulling off the sack from her own head. She was gasping, tears streaming down her face, and when she saw Merlin, she lunged towards him and threw her arms around his body, seeking comfort. The warlock held her close, feeling her shake violently.

"Let's get out of here." The servant helped his ally out from beneath the stage. He looked to the now empty cage on the cart near Morgrim's throne, and frowned. "Where's Arthur?"

Gwaine, too, looked puzzled. "That wasn't part of the plan."

Merlin held Lucia away from him, despite her efforts to cling to him. "Lucia, you need to leave, now. Find your way out of here, get to safety."

"I'm not leaving you—"

"No!" Merlin snapped, heart aching as he noticed her flinch. "You've done enough. No more should to die today."

"Merlin—"

"GO, Lucia!" the warlock roared, shoving her way. She wept and fled, fearing his anger, and as she vanished into the crowd, Merlin tried to ease his pained chest.

"She'll be fine, mate," Gwaine insisted. He turned. "_Watch out!_"

Both of them jumped onto the gallows as a mounted Essetirian charged past, swinging a sword. He died as a bolt pierced his armour and he fell from the saddle.

"Look, there's Arthur!" Merlin pointed to the area beside Morgrim's podium, and in the shadows, a young man was supporting the frail king. A couple soldiers saw them as well, but before they could raise the alarm, yet more crossbow bolts took them out.

"Wow, Leon really _is_ one crack of a shot!" said Gwaine admiringly. "Peter isn't too bad either."

The unpredictable pepper of arrows kept the panic of the people up. The horses continued to create confusion. It was the perfect cover.

A fresh thunderclap reverberated around the courtyard. It was weaker than the other two, and Merlin could tell that it was from Romulus, who was standing not too far away. A crossbow bolt screamed towards the sorcerer, but with a deft flick of his hand, it halted in midair and fell uselessly.

"Romulus," Merlin hissed, tensing like a mountain cat.

"Heads up!" Gwaine parried a blade from a Essetir soldier who attacked from behind, using his dagger. A second man rushed towards them, tearing off his helmet and revealing himself to be Jack of Camelot. Jack beheaded the soldier and stood defensively with Gwaine and Merlin.

There was a sudden crunch of wood, and loud creaks, and the main gate burst open. The courtyard proceeded to empty of nobles and slaves alike, but there were so many, and the gates were so small, they escaped by just a trickle.

Only Morgrim's shrill orders seemed to keep the soldiers at their positions, despite the waspish crossbow bolts.

"We must get to Arthur!" Merlin yelled over the din, and jumped from the gallows. It was in the nick of time, too. As Gwaine followed suit, there was a sudden screaming wail, and a great ball of green fire shot towards the stage. Jack had no time to flee before the flames hit, and the podium exploded.

Gwaine and Merlin, along with a score of others, were picked up by a huge hand of heat and thrown forward onto their fronts, winded. The servant screamed soundlessly as a flying splinter of wood pierced the back of his thigh.

"Jack! No, mate, no!" Gwaine roared.

The brave but hapless soldier was gone, destroyed in the implosion. They could barely hear Severus's crowing laughter.

Merlin clutched at the splinter, teeth gritted in a silent snarl as he curled on his side. Groaning, Gwaine pulled him to his feet, and the warlock shoved grief for the lost soldier aside. He limped heavily, feeling hot blood gush down his leg, but he stashed away the pain to feel later and took the lead in breaking for Morgrim's podium, where Arthur was pinned with the stranger. He and Gwaine were met by three mounted knights of Essetir, protecting their lord. They pointed their spears at the approaching companions, expressions hidden by intricately designed helmets.

Both Merlin and Gwaine tried to push the other behind himself protectively. They only ended up confusing each other. The three knights laughed contemptuously.

"Kill them! _Kill them!_" Morgrim screamed. There was the thud of a crossbow bolt hitting wood just past the lord's ear, and Morgrim squealed before ducking for cover behind his throne.

A clamber of hooves sounded to the right, and Wilhelm of Camelot charged into the scene on an armoured horse, swinging a sword. He killed the first Essetirian knight from behind and continued on, past the two companions, towards the flaming ruins of the gallows. The last of the knights brutally kicked their steeds, and they bound forward to trample the ruffian and servant to the ground.

Before the horses could take another stride, Arthur hurtled himself out of nowhere at the leftmost knight and dragged him from the saddle. The king collapsed beneath the armoured man, howling as his crippled knee was crushed. Merlin and Gwaine threw themselves out of the path of the last knight, but when the rider tried to wheel around for a second charge, a stray horse from the burning stables collided with his. They all went down with a crash and pained whinnies.

"Arthur!" Merlin went to his king, trapped beneath the Essetirian, who raised his sword, point down, for a stabbing kill. The warlock dove and tackled the knight, trying to wrestle the weapon from his grasp. Gwaine stepped in and stabbed the warrior in the heart, and the men of Camelot had a moment to breathe.

Merlin crawled swiftly towards the Pendragon in concern, dragging his wounded leg. "Sire, are you—" He choked as Arthur grappled him to the ground, pinned him and held a dagger to his throat.

Gwaine jumped. "Arthur—!"

"What was the first insult you ever gave me?" Arthur demanded.

Merlin gasped, a worried, confused frown creasing his brow. Arthur shook him viciously, pressing the dagger edge deeper. "_What was it?_"

"A-an ass!" Merlin blurted, the words coming out in a rush. "I called you an ass! I said friend at first but you got puzzled and then I said I'd never have a friend who would be such an ass!"

Arthur glared suspiciously at him for a few more moments, but then a relieved grin spread across his scarred features. "It _is_ you at last, isn't it?"

"I hope so. I'd hate to be the bugger who isn't."

The king laughed lightly and crawled off of him, grunting as he favoured his knee.

"We need to go, now! Hey, Merlin."

"Sean? Is that you?"

The formerly thought-as-stranger youth smiled. "It's good to see the real you."

"Huh?"

"Let's enjoy joyful and loving greetings later, ladies," said Gwaine. "Morgrim's getting away!"

All turned to see the cowardly lord of Essetir dash from behind his throne and head for Arthur's stolen roan stallion, Noble, who was tied to a post and near mad with fear.

"No, he isn't," said Merlin softly. His eyes blazed gold.

The rope tying Noble to the post suddenly fell loose like a beheaded snake, and the beast reared before Morgrim could mount. The lord fell on his face as the roan horse danced away, trying but failing to join the rush to leave the courtyard.

"What the hell?" Gwaine looked at them all, bewildered, and saw them just as confused.

"Fortune favours the brave," said Merlin nonchalantly.

Arthur stared at him, then nodded slowly. "...Sure."

"Let's get him!" Sean and Gwaine both leaped to their feet and charged towards the fallen lord. Merlin stayed with Arthur, and looked about for Romulus. Where had he gone?

"Watch out!" Gwaine's warning came too late, and both he and Sean were blasted off their feet by a wall of flames. As they crashed onto their backs, the fire dwindled and Severus lowered his hands before supporting Morgrim and taking him away. They disappeared into the panicking mob.

Before, it was mostly multicoloured garments and ragged shreds of cloth that filled the crowd. Suddenly, there were more silver suits of armour as soldiers of Essetir swarmed by the dozen from the surrounding citadel like invading ants. They started to take control with the barked orders of sergeants.

Then Percival and Elyan's army of slaves charged into the scene.

The furious onslaught of vengeful labourers met the Essetirian soldiers sword for sword, spear for spear, shield for shield and fought with the strength of true warriors. Emboldened, other slaves, those not mindless in fear, formed together and went about confusing soldiers, or grappled with them to prevent them from being of any use to the authorities.

"_Freedom!_" was their cry.

It was invigorating, the adrenalin the slaves produced as they tasted a smidgeon of liberation and acted on it. Severus and Morgrim were still getting away, however. They were already swallowed up by the roiling chaos.

Arthur cursed. He tore away from Merlin's aiding arms and snatched up a fallen sword from a dead Essetirian, before limping after the escaping sorcerer and lord.

"No, Arthur!" Merlin grappled the king by the shoulders and held him back. "They're gone. We must—"

"Let me go, you useless buffoon!" The king collapsed, but he still struggled.

"Gwaine, get Noble!"

Arthur started to cough, his rage wracking his body. Merlin saw the blood seep from between the king's lips, and paled.

"Arthur, you have to calm down!"

The Pendragon would not listen. Eventually, his thrashing became weak with agony and fatigue. Gwaine managed to snag Noble's halter and haul the terrified beast back to its master. While the knight used the aid of the stage to sit Arthur in the saddle, Merlin whispered cool words to the horse, soothing it. The beast calmed at his familiar voice and scent, and rumbled deep in its chest gratefully.

Merlin took the reins and prepared to climb into the saddle behind Arthur, as to stabilize and protect him. "Whatever happens, Arthur must make it out!" he yelled over the din. "I'll cover him from behind and get out as fast as possible. Gwaine, do you know the location of the others?"

"We have a signal to indicate when we were to rendezvous. I'll give it—How are you going to ride with that leg?"

"I'll be fine. We'll all meet at the knoll, remember the one where we spied on the city?"

"Aye."

"Then let's—" Merlin abruptly cringed, crying out, and covered his ears in pain. He vaguely heard Gwaine's alarmed voice.

"Merlin, what's wrong?"

The warlock straightened and watched the short spear jet towards Arthur's unsuspecting, defenceless back. He slapped Noble's haunches and the stallion bolted forward, knocking hapless people in his path to the ground. The spear, conjured from black magic, skimmed past the king and clattered harmlessly off the cobblestones. For a moment, Merlin's ears stopped screaming in agony and he looked to the source of the magic. Just as he suspected, it was Romulus, and he was swiftly preparing for a second attempt at murder.

Noble skidded to a halt, squealing as a gust of flames from the stables sent him rearing. Arthur managed to hold on, but they were still sitting ducks. A perfect target.

Merlin only had seconds, but time seemed to slow as he sprinted, as fast as his crippled leg would allow, towards where Noble danced in fright. He almost beat the spear as it shot through the air.

Then he could only watch helplessly as it punched through Arthur's back and out his chest.

Merlin's world swam before his eyes. The king jerked forward from the impact, before swaying back, tilting precariously. He slowly looked down at the spear tip protruding unnaturally from his front, and then he sagged, limply falling sideways from the saddle. There on the cobblestones, in a growing pool of his own blood, Arthur ceased to move.

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><p><strong>You: NOT <em>AGAIN!<em>**

**Me: *ducks beneath a shield* NO! DON'T HURT MEH!**

**...**

***cough***

**...**

"**Where is the Horse and the Rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains, like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the west, behind the hills...into shadow." ~ King Théoden (The Lord of the Rings)**


	14. The Wrath of Emrys

**I think I feel a noose around ****_my_**** neck, now. *_* I was afraid to open my email again, with reason. I can almost see you guys sharpening your pitchforks right now...**

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><p><em>Merlin only had seconds, but time seemed to slow as he sprinted, as fast as his crippled leg would allow, towards where Noble danced in fright. He almost beat the spear as it shot through the air. <em>

_Then he could only watch helplessly as it punched through Arthur's back and out his chest._

_Merlin's world swam before his eyes. The king jerked forward from the impact, before swaying back, tilting precariously. He slowly looked down at the spear tip protruding unnaturally from his front, and then he sagged, falling limply sideways from the saddle. There on the cobblestones, in a growing pool of his own blood, Arthur ceased to move._

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~14~ The Wrath of Emrys

Disbelief...Shock...Sadness...Then uncontrollable rage.

Merlin doesn't remember yanking the splinter out of his leg and vaulting onto Noble's saddle, or turning the beast around to run down Romulus the Torturer. All he knew and saw was the murdering sadist hijacking a horse from a Essetirian knight and then galloping down the courtyard, away from the crowd and growing number of soldiers. Merlin pursued him on the king's roan stallion into the bowels of the keep, shutting off the world around him.

Inside, Romulus snatched at tapestries, statues, vases, empty suits of armour – anything loose to throw behind his galloping horse and slow his enemy. Merlin rode through it all, magicking away what he could and letting Noble hurtle over the rest. His skill on horseback was owed to Arthur's persistent challenges to race. He would thank the king later.

Merlin went blind and thoughtless in his fury. Logical thinking abandoned him, common sense pleaded in vain. Romulus broke down every obstacle in their mad rush north, leaving perilous debris fit to impale a rushing horse, but Merlin only kicked Noble ever faster despite the danger. He was _not_ going to let Romulus escape.

Eventually, they reached the belly of a turret. Merlin recognized the destroyed entrance to Romulus's torture chambers, and realized with growing trepidation that they had reached the northernmost turret, the one with the escape bridge into the mountains.

His prey had abandoned his horse at the base of an ascending set of stairs, the door leading to them shattered to smithereens. Merlin hurtled himself from Noble's back and took the steps two at a time, struggling not to collapse over his injured leg. They seemed to go on forever, rising higher and higher. The floor, viewed by slits of windows, was as small as a walnut by the time the steps branched into a short corridor, the end of which clutched onto the hinges of a destroyed door. The light was too bright to see properly out the archway, but Merlin knew that it must be the bridge into the mountains, where Romulus would surely go free.

_He can't escape. He _mustn't_ escape!_

_I will never forgive myself if he does._

The light blinded him for a moment as he limped onto the bridge, gasping, pain ripping throughout his whole body. When the world became clear, it was like he ran into an unseen wall. Romulus was waiting for him.

The conjured spear shot past his chest as he dodged to the side, cringing as the sound of the dark magic tore at his ears. The torpedo vanished into the void of the turret, and the wailing shriek stopped. Merlin gasped for breath, wavering where he stood as he stared at the sadist standing twenty paces down the bridge.

"It's over, Romulus," he called, voice hoarse. "Surrender now!"

"Surrender my ass, you little shit!"

Merlin shrugged. It was worth the shot.

Suddenly, his expression became darker than the Torturer's own heart. "You should not have hurt my friend."

"If only you had more," Romulus hissed, a chuckle emerging from the black cowl. Then he ducked as the flash of white lightning snapped at him, and he crouched into a ball.

Merlin lowered his arms, the hairs of which were standing on end from the lightning, the tantalizing, smoky scent of burned air shrouding his nostrils. He watched indifferently as the Torturer uncurled himself, reminding the warlock of a spooked hedgehog. "_Coward,_" he spat, vehemence curling his lip and bunching his brow.

The monster's demonic laughter kicked Merlin's heart into a frenzy. He wondered why it didn't burst free of his chest and flee altogether.

"Like what I did to your precious _friend?_" Romulus jeered. "That was no ordinary spear, you know. It's a special tool of mine." He laughed again, a wet, gurgling sound. "He won't die. No, not for a long, _long_ time, and he'll suffer excruciating pain every minute of it. And there's nothing you can do to stop it." His next bout of gleeful chuckles was halted by a second snap of lighting from Merlin's clawed hands. Romulus recovered from his recoiled reflex, and sneered. "You'll regret ever seeing my face, boy." He raised his own hands in preparation.

Merlin stood coolly, though he still glared, listing to the right to relieve pressure on his bloodied left leg. He appeared relaxed, but was as taunt as a bow string. "I've never seen your face, Romulus." He lifted one arm. "But I wish to."

The Torturer was too late to grab his hood as a sudden gust of wind snatched at it and dragged it back over his skull. Merlin couldn't help but flinch.

Romulus's head looked to have been beaten and mauled to Hades, and then kicked and trampled all the way back. The flesh was taunt and shiny from cauterized burns, but had a faint orange tinge, as though the skin was diseased. His nose was mostly gone, leaving two wide black slashes like those of a serpent. His cheeks had once been sliced from ear to ear, and the scars that remained pulled his mouth into an eternal, grotesque grin. Because his lips had been split, his broken teeth were in full display. He was mostly bald but for one patch of thin, scraggly black hair that drooped lifelessly down one side of his face. It looked like a raging wolverine had attacked his ears.

Despite the mutated mess around them, the eyes were sharp hazel, clear and bright. It was as though they were intentionally left so that he would see the creature that was him for all eternity.

Someone had done this to him. Perhaps it was the reason for his sadism.

Merlin couldn't help but gawk. "Hell's teeth," he breathed, swallowing.

Romulus sneered. "Aye, they chewed me up pretty good. You have no idea how difficult it is to make friends with a face like this. But I can _give_ you such an idea."

Only magic could have made the speed with which Romulus closed the distance between them possible. His clawed gauntlets slashed through the air with the ferocity of a mountain cat, aiming for Merlin's throat.

Instinct forced the warlock to bend backwards, beneath the metal talons. He was only fast enough to save his jugular: his face was cut from his nose across his right cheek. He cried out and staggered, opening a way for Romulus to attack again. Merlin managed to raise his arm to protect his eyes, but the gash that opened along his forearm was unbearable, and he retreated again.

The Torturer cackled as he prepared to slice Merlin to ribbons. "Ooooh, what _fun_ this is! Dance, wee bunny, dance!" His laughter sounded wet and serpentine as the warlock dodged another lunge of the gauntlet. He felt a fresh cut open on his shoulder, another on his hip, and another, and another, all over his body—

_Think of something, you fool!_ Merlin screamed at himself, but fear had overridden anger and determination, and the Torturer moved so fast. His mind would not work. _Think!_ He grunted as Romulus caught him across the chest. Then his own hands lashed out reflexively, and he grappled with the sorcerer.

Hissing, Romulus shoved him back against a stone crenellation at the edge of the bridge, using the servant's injured leg to his advantage. Merlin was painfully aware of the far drop below them.

The Torturer threw his face into the warlock's. "I can see you're still repulsed by my..._distinctive_ features. Let me help you with that." With a sharp twist of his arm, Romulus broke one wrist free and slashed at Merlin's face.

White pain, red blood.

There was no scream loud enough to define the agony the warlock experienced as his eye flooded crimson, the red, hot juices spattering down his cheek vilely. He barely noticed himself punching Romulus in the stomach and then kicking him in the groin before breaking loose and staggering away. He held his hands up to his bloodied face, nausea rising in his throat as he touched the slimy mess that was his eye.

He heard a furious Romulus slither up behind him. His legs were kicked and he was forced to his knees. A hand grasped a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back and baring his neck. And then five points pressed into his flesh, preparing to rip his throat out.

"You'll see your _man-lover_ in Hell soon, boy!"

Arthur. Arthur is dying. This man killed him. No, not even a man, a monster!

That was all Merlin needed.

"_R__ę__pellö!_"

Romulus gasped as fire and air exploded at his chest, picked him up, and tossed him away down the bridge.

Merlin was bleeding from a dozen wounds, not all shallow, but he stood, feeling beads of blood trickle down his neck, and held his ground, glaring hatefully at the creature who had killed his king and closest companion. In a split second, he saw all of his enemies who had dared to harm his friends. Nimue the witch had nearly taken the life of Gaius, Merlin's guardian, in place of his own. Cornelius Sigan, who had possessed the body of a thieving charlatan, almost killed Arthur and the rest of Camelot by summoning the gargoyles. Morgause, half-sister of the Lady Morgana, had, on many attempts, tried to eliminate them all. There were many, many more, and all were defeated.

Romulus shall share the same fate, if it cost Merlin his life.

When Romulus threw the ball of black flames down the bridge towards him, Merlin absorbed it, literally held out his hands and sucked in the magic, and then sent a jet of blue fire himself. The Torturer just managed to deflect it, but he swayed, astonished at the rogue power that ran through the warlock's veins as thickly as blood.

"What is this magic?" he hissed. He cowered beneath a conjured shield as a second spear of sapphire flames shot towards him. The shield shattered like ice, and the impact forced Romulus to his hands and knees.

By only these few simple taps into his magic, Merlin spontaneously became aware of how great his true potential really was. Never before had he the chance to risk it, but now, in the presence of this monstrosity of a man, he could feel it simmering just beneath the surface, ready to burst forth like a raging tsunami. It scared him.

In fact, it probably scared him more than it scared Romulus.

"Who _are_ you?" the Torturer whimpered, genuinely distressed.

_Emrys._

Merlin spat the blood dripping into his mouth from his ruined eye. "The Druids call me Emrys."

Aithusa dove from the sun's rays, shrieking in fury. Her wings folded, she plummeted down towards Romulus like a demon from heaven. The Torturer was frozen solid as he watched the white dragon fall upon him, and he would have been crushed had he not come to his senses and thrown himself from Aithusa's path during the final heartbeat.

The dragon extended her wings, a span of forty feet, and pulled from the dive, hissing, tail lashing, before ascending in preparation for a second attack.

"Emrys is a myth! A lie!" Romulus howled, sending a conjured spear at Aithusa. Merlin cringed as the black magic clawed at his ears, and his own magic roiled furiously in his chest like a living thing. But he bit back the pain in defiance, and watched as the ivory dragon curbed her wings and dodged the spear.

"Think of it as all a bad dream, Romulus," replied Merlin coolly. "That's how I get by."

Aithusa didn't even have to bank in any direction to avoid the next torpedo; Romulus was starting to panic, his throws going wide.

"You can't defeat me! I am Romulus, Lord of Death! I have seen the Reaper and now wear the proof every living day!" He tore at his own face, splitting skin with his tipped gauntlets. He screamed, but continued to lacerate himself like a madman.

His next onslaught was wild, but Aithusa was not so fortunate this time. She dove in attack, but squealed as the Torturer slashed his talons through the air, and a blade of magic sliced a gash across the shoulder muscle of her wing. She tilted precariously, bumped against the edge of the bridge and fell, vanishing from sight. Romulus cackled gleefully.

"Woe be to any man or _beast_ who defies me!"

The devil himself would have wilted under Merlin's gaze. "And woe be to any man who would dare harm a dragon."

Romulus turned to see the very powerful, and very _angry_, warlock raise his arms. It was then that the Torturer fully came to realize that his power was but a tiny, sick sparrow to Merlin's grand and majestic eagle, and that he was doomed.

He fell to his knees, pleading hands raised pitifully. "Wait, great and merciful master—"

"_D__ę__struo pöntem!_"

Merlin's fist punched the ground, and as his single eye blazoned gold, cracks split the stone, spider-webbing like shattering glass. The gaps raced towards the cowering sorcerer, enlarging, preparing to swallow him whole. The bridge shuddered in distress, and when it could take no more, it collapsed, crumbling in the middle and falling two hundred feet to the ground far below. Romulus's scream was swallowed by the thunderous din as he was dragged down with the bridge, the route he thought his salvation now his grave.

Merlin stared sightlessly, justice served and vengeance sated. Even as the rest of the bridge began to fall, he remained numb and still, vacantly awaiting his own demise.

Aithusa's claws snatched the back of his jacket just as he felt stone falling away under his feet. Willpower suddenly flashed back at him, and his instinct to live urged him to reach overhead and grasp the dragon's paw. Aithusa's other arm hooked and held him to her scaly chest protectively. Merlin's stomach plummeted with the remains of the bridge as he was lifted higher and higher, his legs dangling over oblivion. He could only relax when the white dragon carried him over the turret, and gently laid him down.

Fatigue dragged him to the floor of the roof, but he managed to pull himself to the battlements around the edges and sit against them, feeling the roiling, rogue power dwindle in his chest. What was the raging lion ebbed away to the kitten, and it coiled up to rest, gone for now, but always at hand, should ever the need arise again.

Aithusa nudged him gently, sympathetically, with her nose as he grimaced at his wounds. Merlin smiled weakly and patted the warm scales between her eyes, and she hummed contently deep in her chest. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that her own injury was too shallow to be worried over.

"Thank you, Aithusa," he choked out, his throat raw.

_Emrys_. The dragon stood back, bowed her head, and then spread her wings. She hopped onto the battlements, tail flicking, before diving away, leaving the warlock alone.

Merlin removed the handkerchief from around his neck and rolled it into a band before tying it over his bloodied left eye. He swallowed the pain, physical and emotional.

Noises of the rebellion from the city were carried up to him on the wind, but he paid them no heed. He wondered what had become of Severus and Morgrim, if they had managed to escape, or if they were being torn apart by furious, vengeful slaves. Merlin found himself uninterested. Romulus was gone, and that was all that mattered now. Severus and his lord would be easy to track, because people know, and talk, a lot. Merlin wasn't worried about them, not yet. They'll get what's coming to them soon enough...

There was the familiar thudding of dragon wings pumping at the air.

...Merlin had other matters to attend to.

۞ Ӂ ۞

Arthur was dying.

Aithusa gently lay the king of Camelot on the roof of the turret, beside the warlock, before back-flapping in retreat. She perched on the crenellations along the edge, tail waving to keep her balance. She cooed mournfully.

Merlin wept as he cradled Arthur in his arms. He couldn't help it. He knew that the king would look upon him with scorn when he saw him crying over him, and he did.

"You're such a _girl_, Merlin," Arthur croaked, but the corner of his mouth lifted. There was a tear of his own seeping free and rolling down his cheek, and his features were creased with pain. "Be a man for once."

"I will when you will," Merlin replied, trying to ignore the hot mess that was the wound in the king's chest. Romulus's conjured spear had disappeared, melted into a black substance that took the appearance of rotten smashed banana, and it was seeping into Arthur's bloodstream like poison. By rights, the king should already be dead, but Romulus had spoke the truth when he said that the spear of black magic would not kill him, quickly; yet he had been wrong when he said it would take a long time – Merlin could feel the Arthur's weakening heartbeat beneath his fingers. The king was dying, steadily, inevitably. His tortured body, his wounded heart, could not take the strain for much longer.

Merlin used a free hand to wipe his remaining eye, remembering too late that it was soaked in his friend's blood. Nausea rose as he felt the sticky red substance on his face. Arthur saw it, and suddenly just looked...sad.

"Quite the ride we had," he whispered weakly. "Witches, gryphons, trolls..." He turned his head to look at Aithusa. "Dragons." Back at Merlin, "Aren't you afraid of it?"

"Are you?"

It took a while for the king to answer. He blinked and raised his eyebrows. "No." He seemed to be surprising himself. The white dragon peeped and leaned forward expectantly, head cocked.

Merlin's throat closed and he looked away, watching the sun begin its journey to the jagged edges of the Ridged Mountains. "It wasn't supposed to end this way."

"Oh, had it all planned out, did you?" Arthur's chuckle became a rattling cough, and he grimaced. "Damn that hurts." He sighed shakily. "I wish I could have died with a sword in my hands."

"You...you're not going to die," said Merlin thickly, gritting his teeth but not looking at his friend. "I—I won't let you."

Again came the shuddering laugh. "You know..." He grunted. "I always knew that you'd outlast me, Merlin."

"Shut up, clotpole."

"You can't speak to me that way."

"I'll speak to you however I _damn _well please!"

"You're fired."

"Too late. You fired me this morning."

"Then you're double fired."

"And you're...you're double clotpole."

Arthur chuckled again, a weak, wheezy sound. "I can't believe a man could be so wise and so stupid all at once."

"Nor I a man so noble and foolish."

The king suddenly convulsed in pain, and Merlin held him tighter, keeping the back of Arthur's head on his shoulder. Memories flashed before Merlin's eye to a time years ago, when he had poisoned the Lady Morgana to halt a curse plaguing all of Camelot. He had held her the same way, though she had pushed his arms away before suddenly clinging to him, afraid of Death's embrace and so sought his. Then it was a friend's doom brought upon by Merlin. Now was no different.

"It's my fault," said the warlock, choking.

"And there's the stupid part coming out again."

"I was too slow."

"Damn it, Merlin! A lot of things were your fault, but that doesn't mean that _this_ is!" The power of the words sucked too much energy from the king, and he sagged, exhausted.

Merlin teeth clicked as he ground them together, his voice rough with sorrow. "Arthur, I don't want you to die." He sounded like a child, but it couldn't be helped.

"I've really grown on you, haven't I?"

"This _wasn't supposed to happen_."

"Ouch, Merlin."

The warlock noticed that he had started to squeeze Arthur's bandaged forearm, and he hastily let go. "I'm sorry, sire."

"Sire." Arthur snorted lightly. "There were so many times I wished that you had never called me that, had never come to Camelot."

"I feel the same," Merlin replied, grinning sightlessly at nothing. "What with the abuse, the insults, the cleaning of your filthy, mangy clothes—"

Arthur tried to hit him, but it was too much effort, and to the servant it felt more like a halfhearted brush with a sock. Merlin chuckled meekly with him, and they both watched Aithusa staring at them.

"It's beautiful," said Arthur. "Why my father ordered their destruction, I know now, is..."

"Monstrous," Merlin put out. "She _is_ a beautiful creature." Aithusa was squeaking gratefully for the compliments, her ivory scales glinting like a thousand pearls in the descending sun. Her eyes were twin drops of mercury, but with flecks of gold, indicating the power she shall soon wield.

"She?"

"Her name is Aithusa."

"How do you know...? And how can she be? I thought the last of them—" The king was attacked by another set of coughs, and blood proceeded to dribble down to his chin from between his lips. His eyes rolled back into his head.

"Arthur—"

The Pendragon could not answer.

Merlin looked desperately to Aithusa. "Can...can you help him?"

The white dragon cocked her head inquiringly, blinking.

"Please, can you save him? _Please!_"

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><p><strong>Well, can she?<strong>

**That is not a rhetorical question. I am making good that promise I made many weeks ago, regarding choices. You, the reader, now have Arthur Pendragon's life in your hands.**

**Think about what you truly want and believe before typing your vote into the review box. Think about Albion, and the consequences of your decision. Think about reality, not how cute Bradley James is. Don't let others decide for you, because that's what everyone _else_ will do, and if that's the case, I won't get _any_ reference. Both endings are typed and set to publish. If you don't want others to know your vote, PM me. Either way, please, _please_ vote.**

**Can Aithusa save Arthur Pendragon? Or has Merlin failed his destiny, and left Albion doomed? The choice is yours.**

"**The Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and it will fail, to the ruin of all." ~ Galadriel (The Lord of the Rings)**


	15. There is a King in You

****As of March 2012: 31 favourites, 64 alerts and 59 reviews****

**Ha ha! ****_Yes!_**** I knew it! I knew you wouldn't let me down!**

**Yeah, I wanted you to pick this road. In fact, it was practically unanimous, and I'm glad for it! XD**

**So, I release you from your bonds with the last chapter of this tale. I hope you enjoyed it, ****_because it drove me bleedin' mad!_**** ...Ahem. You chose life for Arthur Pendragon, so I give you life for Arthur Pendragon. There were, however, a couple hints given that some wanted both endings ~ I may post both, or I may continue a new story with the alternate ending if I can think of a storyline. But for now, ****_arrivederci_****_, amici_****, until next time.**

"**Now we are free." ~ Juba (Gladiator)**

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><p><em>The king was attacked by another set of coughs, and blood proceeded to dribble down to his chin from between his lips. His eyes rolled back into his head.<em>

"_Arthur—"_

_The Pendragon could not answer._

_Merlin looked desperately to Aithusa. "Can...can you help him?" _

_The white dragon cocked her head inquiringly, blinking._

"_Please, can you save him? _Please!_"_

₪ † ₪

~15~ There is a King in You

Aithusa's eyes were downcast. She peeped, a sound so out of place for a dragon her size.

Merlin suddenly realized how long it had been since she was but a hatchling, so small she could coil up nicely in his palm to sleep. Now her shoulder stood just over that of a man's. With her size grew her power, it must.

_Aithusa, please._

The twin pebbles of mercury, each spotted by an intelligent darkness, flicked up at the king and his servant.

_Emrys_. Her nostrils flared skeptically. She focused on Arthur. _Man of Albion, man of Destiny. Save. How?_

_You are Aithusa, the Luminance of the Sun. You _know_ what to do, even if you do not realize it._

_Save. Save Arthur Pendragon_.

"Arthur, wake up."

The king's head lolled against Merlin's shoulder as he was nudged. His eyes opened, then widened to see the white dragon's nose not a foot away, her gaze level with his.

"Merlin?" he said nervously.

"I'm here, sire."

A fresh tear trickled down Merlin's cheek, but not of sorrow. As Aithusa's nose brushed Arthur's forehead, the servant felt a rise of power swell, a tingle, detectable like heat. Aithusa began to hum deep in her chest.

_Save. Albion._

Arthur grunted, stiffening. Merlin felt a peculiar warmth beneath his hand covering the black mess filling the wound in Arthur's chest, and when he removed it, he was shocked to see the gash completely covered, healed. The wound of Romulus was gone. The black substance was pushed out of his blood as the body would reject a sliver, and came away when the warlock touched it.

As Merlin watched, the sewn cut on the king's cheek smoothed over, the twine holding it together falling away in the breeze. There was a snap, and a pained cry, as Arthur's knee was repaired, leaving it whole.

"Saints alive," Merlin gasped, and unravelled the bandages on the king's arms, to find them healed to the complete, sinewy flesh they had ever been. His missing fingers did not return, but the holes where they should have been sealed properly, and infection was drawn away. Arthur's heartbeat strengthened, as did his breathing. His chest no longer rattled and his gaze sharpened to that of a keen eagle.

Aithusa withdrew a few paces, admiring her work but sagging in exhaustion. Her scales seemed less shiny, her eyes less bright.

Merlin nudged the king, who had closed his eyes and slumped back against the servant. "Arthur? How do you feel?"

"I...I...I don't understand..."

"It's all right, sire. Everything's going to be all right." Merlin was getting annoyed with how many tears he was shedding that day, even if they were of radiant joy. "She saved you."

The king heaved in a great breath, relishing the painlessness of it. "Ah. And that's why you're crying?"

"What?"

"You're crying because I'm alive and therefore you're still fired?"

"Dollop-head!"

They both laughed, and for once it didn't hurt.

Arthur grunted and tried to sit up. "Stop cuddling me, you buffoon. What would the knights think?" He was ghostly pale; his wounds had been healed, but he was still very weak from blood loss. The only consolation was that whatever blood had been on his body and soaked in Merlin's clothes had been drawn back within when his flesh was repaired. He would survive, but only just, and as long as he didn't exert himself.

"So I help save your life and avenge your torturous treatment and yet I'm _still_ the buffoon. Great."

Arthur rolled away from Merlin, ignoring the remark, and got onto his hands and knees.

"Sire, maybe you shouldn't..."

Perhaps it was the regal Pendragon blood in him, but Arthur managed to get to his feet. He leaned heavily on the battlements for a while, and then forced himself to take a few steps to where Aithusa sat exhausted. He bent at the waist, bowing in utmost gratitude.

"You have saved my life, noble dragon. I am forever in your debt." The sincerity in the words was as clear and genuine as a true king of Albion. Aithusa dipped her serpentine neck and head smoothly. Her weary voice echoed in the heads of both Arthur and Merlin.

_Destiny. Albion. Saved. Rest now._

The white dragon spread membranous wings that blocked the sun, and with a single downward flap, she was in the air. She circled the turret once, turned north, and rode the wind streams over the mountains. She vanished with one last thought for Merlin.

_Emrys_.

"Magnificent." Arthur sagged, and the warlock dove forward to catch him. He helped him down back against the crenellations, and then sat down beside him. Arthur let his head rest back for a moment, eyes shut, but then he opened one and scanned Merlin up and down, taking in the gashes, claw marks and bloodied neckerchief across his eye.

"What the _hell_ happened to you?"

۞ Ӂ ۞

The death toll was staggering. Scores of men, women, and children had been slaughtered or crushed to death in the swarms of soldiers and slaves as they fought for control of the city. The Essetirians had swords and armour, but the slaves had retribution and fury, not to mention numbers. For two days, hard fighting and bloodshed reigned and stormed the city. By the time the sun had ducked beneath the Ridged Mountains on the second day, the citadel was taken by the now free people of Essetir Castle.

There had been no celebrating. No cheers or sounds of jubilation rang through the streets, nor did joyful exclamations announce reuniting families.

The strongest and most able-bodied had disarmed the defeated knights and soldiers, grim-faced and silent. The sick and fatigued had been given some food, along with a place to sleep. The injured were being treated by Bartholomew the physician, whose formerly-hostage daughter clung to him like a leech and refused to let go.

Bart was up all hours of the day, working. There were a few physicians from the once-enslaved villages to help him out, but he was still under a great deal of stress.

As for the men of Camelot, half of them had departed several days past on the fastest horses, taking the word for aid. Their wounded companions could not be moved, and despite their insistence on going home, they were forced to stay in the captured Essetir Castle. They were treated like heroes, as that was what they were. Because of them, torn families were united and healed. Because of them, none felt another demonic whip on their shoulders ever again. Because of them, they were free.

۞ Ӂ ۞

Five days ago, Arthur had listened helplessly in repulsed horror as Bart worked on saving Merlin's eye. The servant had tried to be as silent as possible for bravery's sake, but failed miserably. Arthur had grimaced, gritting his teeth, deeply regretting the fact that the city had very little of the sleep-inducing, pain-relieving poppy milk to help his friend. He had been bedridden himself, however, because his head drifted away and left him dizzy when he tried to stand. He couldn't have abandoned Merlin to face the pain alone, even if he'd wanted to.

Now, nearly a week later, Arthur sat by the servant's bed, talking away the day. There was a patch on Merlin's eye, which held a poultice that worked on saving half of his vision. Bart was sure it would work, in part if not all. According to the physician, if Merlin had been but a needle's-breadth closer to Romulus's clawed gauntlets, his eye would have been slashed open and destroyed beyond hope. As it was, he will inevitably have scars.

Arthur asked once more about the servant's battle with Romulus, and was both awed and amused by it. Though Merlin had told it numerous times to him and the knights, he obliged in recalling the tale. He explained that he had chased Romulus through the castle to the north turret and out onto the bridge, where he was ambushed and nearly sliced up to rat fodder. Aithusa the dragon saved him by attacking the Torturer, and, in his panic, Romulus accidentally broke the bridge with a spell gone wrong, and he fell with it. Aithusa grabbed Merlin before he plummeted to his death as well.

"So, really, I didn't do anything," the servant concluded with a modest shrug. "It was all the dragon, and that bastard's own mistake."

Arthur accepted it, even though he was still curious about the existence of the dragon in the first place.

He winced and stretched out his leg. The joint that had been crippled by Romulus's Knee Splitter had never fully healed like he thought. Aithusa had mostly repaired the bone and skin, but the tendons were a little...wrong. He would have a limp forever.

He was fortunate though. He could completely see out of both eyes.

"Stop _scratching_; it's not good for it." Arthur pulled Merlin's arm away from rubbing at the eye patch, again.

"It itches."

"Oh, quit complaining, you big baby. I've had _training_ wounds worse than yours."

"You've had training wounds that made you look like you went through a wheat grinder?"

"Yeah, and then chewed on by wildren."

"Gorgeous."

They laughed. The sarcasm indicated they were back to normal...as normal they could become again, anyway.

Sitting there against his bed headboard, Merlin seemed oblivious to the fact that he looked like he had been mauled by a tiger, or he just didn't let his new appearance get in his way. He caught himself before he could scratch the three long, stitched cuts that ran from his nose across his right cheek. "These are going to scar."

"Don't sweat, the ladies'll love it!" Gwaine swaggered down the way, a loose cotton shirt hiding the gauze that bound his burns. "Makes you look like a victor, a war hero!"

"Or that I don't know how to duck."

Gwaine raised a concurring eyebrow. "That too."

"It's good to see you up and about, Gwaine," said Arthur, nodding politely.

"It's good to _be_ up, you have no idea," the ruffian groaned, rolling his eyes. He grabbed a seat across from Arthur and leaned his elbows on the servant's bed. "I suppose you want to know all about our plan from earlier, with the diversion and all."

Arthur and Merlin glanced at each other, then back at Gwaine, shaking their heads casually.

"Nah, not really."

"Maybe later."

The knight glowered. "Fine. Be that way. Okay, I'll tell you." The other two withheld grins of amusement. "After you and the cyclops over here were gone, we overheard guards talking about a mass hanging in the southern courtyard. We, being as noble and brave as we are, knew we had to step in and save your sorry asses. To cut things short, we sabotaged the gallows (though not as well as we'd hoped), unlocked the stalls in the stables and prepared a fire, found a vantage point for Leon and Peter to shoot crossbows, and, when all were inside the yard, we barred the gates, to slow guards from getting in, and prevent the audience, including Morgrim, from getting out. And, of course, there were the war parties of pissed-off slaves." Gwaine sat back smugly. Then he frowned. "It turned out rather well, other than that _Sean_ and his two brutish conies. They _ruined_ it by breaking down the gates and letting that pig lord get away!"

"It wasn't ruined. In fact, if anything had turned out different, who knows what would have happened," said Merlin. "But something is still bugging me. Why were _you_ on the gallows? It wasn't necessary for you to risk a real hanging."

Gwaine looked sheepish, and he nearly blushed. "Well, actually, I screwed up and got captured. That wasn't part of the plan."

۞ Ӂ ۞

As always, when Bartholomew came to refresh Merlin's bandages, he had his young daughter clinging to him like a shadow. The doctor was aged, very aged, and seemed too old to have a daughter, but Bart whispered that she really wasn't his blood. He would tell Merlin the story later.

The warlock smiled at the young girl, and, after a while, she grinned back, her mouth devoid of two baby front teeth. She was so young, it made Merlin sad that she had been held hostage while Bart was forced to be court physician – the doctor couldn't kill anyone of importance with a 'foot deodorant' or 'nasal cleanser:' he had itched to toss in poisonous herbs every time he made a medicine for a snobby, heartless lord or lady, but with his ward on the line...

Merlin had forgiven the man for his betrayal, but Bart still gives mournful, sincere apologies every chance he got.

۞ Ӂ ۞

By the time the soldiers from Camelot arrived, Merlin was allowed to get up and wander around – not that he hadn't been wandering around earlier, despite the injury the wood splinter caused on the back of his thigh. Bart had threatened him with buckles and straps to hold him in bed before he was fit to stand, and the servant took the warning to heart, at least when the physician was in the room.

The defeated, imprisoned soldiers of Essetir were stripped of armour, weapons, and, basically, dignity before they were sent away. Arthur ordered their release solely because he wouldn't possibly have them all executed. He couldn't bear to have that blood on his hands.

There was a baron further north, along the coast, who was the closest man of power. They sent word to him about Essetir Castle, and then abandoned the city and its remaining wealthy inhabitants. The former slaves, bearing all the food and supplies they could carry and escorted by soldiers of Camelot, returned to their villages. Merlin's mother went with her son for a visit before travelling back to Ealdor, to heal injured body and heart. Lucia, the kitchen maid, remained in Camelot, much to Merlin's pleasure.

۞ Ӂ ۞

"I suppose I should thank you."

"For what?"

"For everything."

Merlin had to twist in his chair to view Arthur, who was standing behind him against a wardrobe. The patch on his healing left eye itched, but he was working on breaking the habit of scratching it. He frowned, the many scars on his face pulling. They no longer made him feel self-conscious – though, occasionally, he startles himself when his reflection flashes in a silver platter. "What's included in this 'everything?'"

"You know..._everything!_"

The servant blinked. "Oh. Okay. Um, you're welcome for...everything." He turned back to tending the sword.

"I think you misinterpreted me."

"About what?"

"My gratitude."

"I'm your servant. I'm supposed to do these things. A thank you is nice, but—"

Arthur waved a hand, then limped over to the cabinet, where he refilled his wine goblet. He had to concentrate to do so, as he was still not used to having only three fingers on his left hand. "I mean what you did for me in Essetir."

Again Merlin blinked. "You're thanking me _now_. After _two weeks_."

The king didn't reply. A friendly fire cackled in the hearth of his chambers. Outside, a gentle autumn rain pattered against the slightly-parted window, the smell of cool freshness wafting in fragrantly. For a while, all that could be heard was the tapping water, the satisfying hiss of sharpening steel and the snickering embers. It was a most comforting symphony.

"I also want to ask for your forgiveness."

This really caught Merlin's attention. Not only does Arthur never 'ask' for anything, only demand, he has never asked the warlock for 'forgiveness' either. Suddenly, there was 'ask' and 'forgiveness' in a single sentence!

"Sire?"

Arthur stared into the ruby depths of his wine goblet. "I'm sorry for what I have done to you."

"...Done to me?"

"I have dragged you into this, _all _this, from the very beginning."

Merlin waited for the smile to split when the king looked up from his cup, but it never came. There was genuine grief etched into Arthur's eyes, and weariness in his features.

"For nearly ten years you've been under my service, and not one of those years, not a single, bloody _one_, has been quiet. You could have seen the world by now. You could have...bought your own home, settled with a nice piece of land, found a pretty girl...But you haven't. You're here, with me, now half blind and scarred for life."

Merlin didn't know what to say. The whetstone in his hand was poised over the sword, forgotten.

"You have been a faithful servant, more than I've ever given you credit for. You have saved my life more times than any other man, but you've never asked for anything in return. A greater friend I could never be blessed with. Therefore, I'm going to offer you retirement."

There was a small clatter as Merlin dropped the whetstone, which bounced off the sword before hitting the table. He never tore his gaze from the king's.

"Arthur...I can't...I don't know how to reply to this."

"Don't." The king looked away, out the window, wincing and massaging his knee. "Just...will you forgive me?"

There was a long, tense silence, peppered only by rain and flame. Arthur watched Merlin blankly, yet anxiously, for an answer.

The servant shrugged, grinning. "Sure. Why not?"

Relief washed over Arthur's face, and he smiled, harrumphing and tasting the wine. "Good enough for me." He paused. "...My offer still stands."

Merlin turned away. Retirement? Free of the shackles of Arthur's hard treatment? No more boot polish or filthy, sweaty clothes or waking up early to fetch his hearty breakfast? It sounded like a dream come true, a real temptation. He could go live in Ealdor, and use the small but humble salary he earned to buy his own house, a horse, maybe some chickens and then...

And then...what? Live the last of his days growing old and fat in blissful oblivion? Cut himself off from the turmoil of King Arthur's existence? Throw away the chance to ever have to fight for his own neck, or save the king's skin, or rid Camelot of some dark plague birthed of magic, ever again? It was all he really knew now; it was practically his life...

Quickly, the dream blooming into reality instead twisted into a nightmare.

Merlin turned back to Arthur. "I'd rather die."

The king laughed, loudly and jovially. "I'll never understand you, Merlin. Never."

"That's probably why I'm still alive."

Arthur laughed again, even if he didn't interpret the servant's words correctly. When he stopped, Merlin spoke once more.

"I am serious though. I can't imagine my life anywhere but here."

"I'm touched."

Merlin ignored that. "I know I've never said it, but I _am_ honoured to be your servant. You are a good man, Arthur. There is a king in you, a greater king than Albion has ever known. And soon, you'll see so for yourself." He faced away from Arthur's calm, contemplative expression and continued to work on the sword.

Once more, they listened to the sky's tears of gaiety, studiously choosing their next words. None came for a while.

Merlin lifted the gleaming blade, catching his reflection in the silver steel and frowning. He turned his wrist and felt the edges with his free hand. Not quite done.

"I just remembered," said Arthur suddenly, and the warlock looked to him inquiringly. "You are still due for a holiday. That last one...wasn't really..." He scowled thoughtfully at the ceiling. "I think you're owed a week or so."

"No, no, no, I don't think so. I think, for all I've done, I should get _three_ weeks." Again Merlin glanced at his reflection in the sword, tracing the furrows that were his scars with his single-eyed gaze. "You're just trying to stub me because you could barely survive three _days_ without me."

Arthur took a sip of wine, not looking away from his servant. He grimaced. "You really are an ugly bastard."

Merlin clucked his tongue, and proceeded to slide the whetstone along the blade. "You know what they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

₪ † ₪

~Epilogue~

"Where the hell do you think _you're_ going?"

Merlin led his horse out of the glade and tightened the girth before checking the saddlebags. "I'm going with you."

"Like hell you are." Arthur untied Noble, his roan stallion, from the birch tree and prepared to mount. He felt guilty, even though it had been nearly a month, every time he saw the ghastly scars around Merlin's left eye. He could see from it, at least, but he was still disfigured. Arthur will forever have it on his conscience, which is why, now, he wanted the servant to remain in Camelot, safe within its walls. "I ordered you to stay here."

"To 'hell' with your orders," Merlin countered. "It's my holiday and I'm going with you."

Arthur glowered at him from his seat in the saddle. "You can just never do as you're told, can you?"

Merlin shook his head and mounted the grey steed. "Better luck teaching a badger to sing. Besides, Severus is a sorcerer. I've seen you fight sorcerers: you're no good at it."

"Oh, and I suppose _you_ know all about it," said the king casually, with a mocking nod. "I see. Well, I hope you didn't let anyone follow you here. I don't want a whole bleeding _legion_—"

"Hey, _yoo-hoo!_ Wait for me!"

"What is this?" Arthur snarled as yet a third companion cantered from the trees between them and Camelot.

"Whoo, that was close. I thought I was going to miss catching you." Gwaine stopped his horse near the king's, already suited up for a long journey.

"He would be as good as any legion," Merlin muttered, mouth twitching.

"What are you _doing?_" Arthur demanded of the knight.

Gwaine raised his eyebrows. "Well, I couldn't let you two rip Morgrim to shreds without me, now could I?"

"Yes, you _could_," replied Arthur tightly, glaring darts at his grinning servant.

Merlin shrugged. "I didn't mean for him to come. He followed me!"

"Just like ol' times, mates!" said the ruffian knight merrily, throwing an arm around Arthur's shoulders, an awkward gesture considering that they were on separate horses. "You, the cyclops, and darling, dashing me on a world-wide adventure into the untamed wild, facing monsters and foul sorcerers at every turn!" He drew his sword and held it high. "On the trail we blaze—!"

"Yeah, yeah, sounds epic." Arthur shrugged off Gwaine's embrace, disgruntled and scowling. He couldn't fool the others though. Arthur was pleased for the companionship, as always, and they knew it. "Just as long as—"

Thunder, and then a synchronized, "_Oi!_"

Arthur's head flopped back sluggishly and he stared at the sky. "You've _got_ to be kidding me."

Leon, Percival, and Elyan pulled up their charging steeds, halting the thunder and smiling like fools.

"What are you all doing here?" the king demanded, just as he did Gwaine.

"Visiting my sick aunt, your majesty," said Elyan.

"Delivering a letter, sire," replied Percival with a nod.

"Picking flowers, my lord," Leon finished, bowing in the saddle.

Merlin grinned as Arthur's face went as flat as the horizon. When that deadpan expression fell on him, he burst out laughing, his sides heaving until they ached. It didn't take long for the others – besides Arthur – to join him wholeheartedly.

"You aren't going anywhere without us, your royal hiney," hooted Gwaine, and finally, the king could not withhold a smile of his own. He looked to Merlin again, who shrugged a shoulder and then nodded reassuringly.

"Shall we?" Gwaine lifted an arm, hand towards the west.

Arthur glanced between his oldest friends, his loyal brothers in arms and his faithful servant, who have shed blood and toiled tirelessly with him, for him, and knew that he couldn't be more content.

"Nothing would honour me more," replied the king, bowing his head.

The company of six turned and rode their horses away from the rising sun, to fulfil sworn oaths and sate vengeful justice, together. High above them, a white dragon circled on the morning breeze, bugling a welcome to the dawn.

**Ӎεӷȴįŋ**


End file.
